In celebration of the release of Joe R. Lansdale’s outstanding BORN FOR TROUBLE: THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF HAP AND LEONARD, Tachyon presents glimpses from the new collection.

[Lansdale’s] newest book, BORN FOR TROUBLE, is a collection of stories about the irresistible duo of Hap and Leonard. If you’ve met these dudes before, you won’t be surprised to hear that these latest stories are a treat; if you’re a Hap-and-Leonard virgin, well, I’ll overlook the fact that you’ve spent your recent years living in a cave and congratulate you on the adventure upon which you’re embarking.

—Lawrence Block, author of the Matthew Scudder mystery series

Coco Butternut

by
Joe R. Lansdale

“All I want you to do is make the exchange. Give them the bag, and they’ll give you Coco Butternut.”

We were all in the office of Brett Sawyer’s Investigations, me and Leonard and Brett, my daughter Chance, and this little, chubby guy, Jimmy Farmer who wore a very bad toupée. He wanted us to make an exchange for him. Give some blackmailer a bag full of money in exchange for a dog called Coco Butternut that had belonged to Farmer’s mother, as did the pet cemetery, a mortuary, and a cemetery for humans called Oak Rest.

Our German shepherd, Buffy, was also present, lying on the couch, about as interested as a dog can be in conversations that don’t involve the words “treat” or “outside.”

What was odd about all this was Coco Butternut was as dead as a stone and mummified.

“Let me see here,” Leonard said. “You got a pickled dog stolen from you, and you want us to give some money to a guy that dug him up—”

“Her,” Jimmy said. He had a condescending way of talking and a face that somehow made you want to punch it. He had all the personality of the Ebola virus. I hadn’t liked him on sight, and I wasn’t sure why.

“Okay,” Leonard said. “Her. You want us to give a bag of money to a dead dog-napper and he gives us the mutt, and that’s it?”

“That’s all,” Farmer said. “Only one of you can do it. He said to send one person to make the exchange. He said I could do it, but I’m not comfortable with that, and I told him so.”

“You two talked person to person?” Brett said.

“No, we . . . does this girl work here?”

“That’s my daughter, Chance,” I said. He had been eyeing her since he first came in, as if she might have designs on his wallet.

“She can be discreet?” he said.

“She certainly can,” Chance said. Chance had her thick black hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was dressed the same as Brett, tee-shirt and blue jeans and tennis shoes. She looked like a fifties teenybopper. Even in her twenties she could have easily passed for eighteen or nineteen. She was so sweet she broke my heart.

Farmer paused a moment, taking time to consider how discreet Chance could be, I suppose.

“Okay,” he said. “This thief, we didn’t talk face to face. First he sent me a note that said he had the dog.

“I went to the pet cemetery to look. There was a hole where she was buried, an empty grave. No question the body was gone.

“There was a sealed plastic bag in the empty grave. Inside of it was a burner phone. There was a note with a number on it. I called the number. That’s how we spoke, and that’s when he told me what he wanted. I threw the phone away like he asked.”

“You know the man’s voice?” Leonard asked.

“No. It may even have not been a man.”

“You keep saying he,” I said.

“Look, it was one of those synthesizer things. You can’t tell who you’re talking to. Sounds more male than female on those things. I couldn’t tell the sex or age really. Voice said they had my mother’s dog, and he wanted money.”

“They?” Brett asked.

“What the voice said.”

“Why was the dog pickled?” Leonard said.

“Embalmed and wrapped like a mummy,” Farmer said. “Not pickled.”

“Same thing,” Leonard said. “Except for the duct tape.”

“Embalmed and wrapped like a mummy,” Farmer said. “Not pickled.”

“Same thing,” Leonard said. “Except for the duct tape.”

“No tape. Cloth. Mother had it done five years ago. She died shortly thereafter. The wrapping is stuck to the dog with some kind of adhesive. They embalmed her, and then wrapped her. It’s not duct tape.”

“Can I ask why?” I said.

“We own a pet mortuary and cemetery. Most dogs are cremated, but we offer a variety of services. Embalming and mummification for example. Coco Butternut was a show dog. A dachshund. She had won a number of dog show awards. Nothing big, but Mother adored her. She had all her dogs embalmed. Coco Butternut was the first one to be wrapped, mummified.”

“I know we can become very attached to our pets,” Brett said. “But it isn’t your dog, and well, it’s dead. You sure you want to pay for a mummified dog corpse?”

“I never really cared for the dog,” Farmer said. “It bit me a few times. Nasty animal. But Mother was sentimental about it, and I’m sentimental about her. The dog meant a lot to her.”

I didn’t actually find Farmer all that sentimental, but you never really know someone at first blush, and truth is, you may not ever know someone even when you think you do.

“When you say a lot,” Leonard said, “the next question is how much is this sentiment going to cost you?”

“I’d rather not say. Just deliver the bag and bring home the dog.”

“I got one more question,” Leonard said. “Who names a dog Coco Butternut?”

“Mother,” Farmer said.

“Not to step on your mother’s grave, but why the hell would she name a dog that,” Leonard said. “She just go by Coco, or Butter, or Nut?”

“Dog had a chocolate body, but butternut-colored paws. That’s how the name came about.”

“Could have just called her Spot or Socks or some such,” Leonard said. “Hell, Trixie. I had a dog named Trixie. That’s a good name.”