Chapter Three

Hank

Now

“Well, well, well…to what do I owe this honor on a fine October mornin’? Three handsome fellas all at once in my humble establishment.” Tilly’s kind face lit up like a Christmas tree as Hank trailed behind the boys and the pup inside the cozy, familiar warmth, heading straight for the counter. “Vern!” She hollered over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, and soon after, her husband stuck out his flushed face, a ‘ what now, woman ?’ frown between his bushy, gray brows. Then he recognized his three regulars, and his features softened until a broad, cheeky grin spread across his face.

“Howdy there, gentlemen.” He tipped his imaginary hat before wiping his weather-beaten hands in his apron. “Just got me some fine catfish delivered this mornin’. Bullhead. Haven’t seen a bullhead this fine in ages. Just about to fry ‘em. You want ‘em with fries and collard greens? Or maybe puppies and slaw?” Eagerness intermingled with his smile while he twisted his hands in front of him.

“Hon, will ya let our guests get in the door before you attack ‘em with your catfish?” Tilly shook her head fondly, her clear blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “One oughta think they’d never had a darn catfish before. Jesus, hon.” Turning toward them, she smiled apologetically, but it didn’t take a genius to see that she was pretty excited about the catfish, too.

“But it’s bullhead,” Vernon murmured, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand, scowling offendedly at his wife.

“Bullhead, you say?” Hank raised an eyebrow, genuine interest coursing through him. It was true. He hadn’t had catfish in a while. And bullhead? Not in ages. “The puppies made of cornmeal?” His mouth watered at the thought of the deliciously golden crispy balls, the gooey dough melting on his tongue. Vernon made a mean hush puppy, that’s for sure. Some would even say the best in these parts of Nebraska. Nothing like the dry stale excuse for one Hank had tried to soften up with thick gravy not so long ago during a diner visit in Whitney. The diner’s name alone should’ve been a foreboding of what was to come, but he was so disillusioned after visiting with Dr. Sloane that he’d just felt like indulging one final time. Indulging, my ass. There hadn’t been one remotely positive thing to say about the meal he’d had at The End of the Road. Yeah, nothing beat Vernon’s puppies, that’s for sure.

“Now, what do you think?” Vernon grinned stupidly. “Is my middle name Conrad?” He squinted at Hank, leaning against the door to the kitchen. Everyone in Hayley’s Peak knew that Vernon’s middle name was Conrad, named after his German granddaddy, who’d arrived in America shortly after the Great Depression.

“Jesus,” Hank shook his head, then his eyes lit up as he rubbed at his beard carefully. “A goddamn bullhead, huh?”

“Yessir. You wanna see the ugly bastard?” Vernon nodded towards the kitchen, his face beaming with pent-up excitement as if Hank had just made his day, perhaps even his week.

“Sure, Vern, why not?” Hank shrugged, turning towards Henry and Colton. “You boys go ahead, and I’ll be right with ya.”

“He means in half an hour at the very least,” Tilly chirped, while she reached for the coffeepot. “I’ll be right with ya, boys. The pup on a diet, or am I allowed to give little Louis a slice of bacon?” The black Labrador tilted his head at the combination of pup and bacon, his front paws shifting quickly on the worn linoleum floor.

“One, and one slice only , Til,” Henry gave her a mock stern look while Colton held up three fingers behind his boyfriend’s back with a smirk. When people saw the couple, very few assumed that the beefy, tattooed ex-soldier would be the soft one out of the two of them. But once they got to know Colton, they discovered he had a gentle guardedness about him and a heart that beat the fastest for the two guys in his life: Henry and Louis.

“There’s hardly anything little about Louis except for that pea-sized brain of his,” Hank cackled, only just avoiding a half-assed kick from his nephew before he quickly followed Vernon into the adjacent kitchen.

“So?” Vernon shifted on his feet, a dazed look in his eyes, as he took in the catfish before him. “Am I right or am I right?”

“Shit, Vern. That’s a damn fine bullhead.” Hank tipped his chin appreciatively at the box of fish, the fresh muddy smell of river water entering his nostrils, sending all sorts of memories coursing through him. He and his older brother, Walter, used to go fishing with their daddy all the time when they were kids, their favorite pastime after stealing apples or racing around the small country roads on their bikes. As always, when his thoughts drifted to Walter, a dull pain inhabited his chest, reminding him of the absence of his older brother. It wasn’t Walter’s much too early death who’d put an end to their relationship—no, it was Hank choosing Eugene over his only family. Eugene. It hadn’t been a choice, really. He would choose Eugene again and again, even knowing that he would lose him all over again.

“Told ya,” Vernon chuckled, as he reached for a large frying pan above the industrial stove. “Three times catfish, puppies, and slaw?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Lord knows when I’ll get good bullhead again. Doubt the boys get it often either,” Hank smiled, his gaze landing on two large padlocks next to the sink. “You expectin’ a crime wave in Hayley’s?” he grinned at Vern, who’d started gutting the fish skillfully, humming quietly in front of him.

“Why?”

“The locks,” Hank nodded at the sink. “That’s some heavy hardware you got there. Or are ya locking up the missus now? She finally got a good look at that ugly mug of yours and decided to make a run for it?” He failed to bite back a chuckle, but Vernon was too absorbed in cleaning the catfish to notice anything.

“Nah…” Vernon pulled out the intestines, throwing them in a trashcan. “It’s them darn raccoons,” he groaned. “They’ve been goin’ into the trash lately. Making a real mess out back. I’m fixin’ to put a lock on the dumpsters.”

“Raccoons?” Hank scratched the back of his neck, his hand connecting with his coarse, outgrown hair. He needed a cut. Perhaps he could convince Tilly to do it. She didn’t have much use for her scissors anyway, with Vern being bald as an egg. “You sure about that? I ain’t seen a raccoon in ages…”

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, it’s hardly an out-of-state bear passing through, is it now?” He shook his head as he started skinning the large fish, its yellowish-brown body resembling the muddy color of the river water. “Nah, I bet your hat it’s them raccoons.”

“Whatever you say, Vern,” Hank grinned, not too convinced about the whole raccoon theory—still, it was better than running into a hungry bear this time of the year. Yeah, he could do without that. “I’ll head out to the boys and leave ya to it, then.”

“Sure thing, Hank,” Vernon nodded, still too consumed with his catfish to spare Hank a final glance.