Posted on Short Story

Geronimo

These are Geronimo’s own words as dictated to S. M. Barrett in 1905.

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I, Geronimo, was born in Nodoyohn Canyon, Arizona, June 1829.

In that country which lies around the head waters of the Gila River, I was reared. This range was our fatherland; among these mountains our wigwams were hidden; the scattered valleys contained our fields; the boundless prairies, stretching away on every side, were our pastures; the rocky caverns were our burying places.

I was fourth in a family of eight children, four boys and four girls. Of that family, only myself, my brother, Porico, and my sister, Nahdaste , are yet alive. We are held as prisoners of war in this Military Reservation.

As a babe I rolled on the dirt floor of my father's tepee, hung in my tsoch at my mother's back, or suspended from the bough of a tree. I was warmed by the sun, rocked by the winds, and sheltered by the trees as other Indian babes.

When a child, my mother taught me the legends of our people; taught me of the sun and sky, the moon and stars, the clouds and storms. She also taught me to kneel and pray to Usen for strength, health, wisdom, and protection. We never prayed against any person, but if we had aught against any individual we ourselves took vengeance. We were taught that Usen does not care for the petty quarrels of men.

My father had often told me of the brave deeds of our warriors, of the pleasures of the chase, and the glories of the warpath.

With my brothers and sisters I played about my father's home. Sometimes we played at hide-and-seek among the rocks and pines; sometimes we loitered in the shade of the cottonwood trees or sought the shudock while our parents worked in the field. Sometimes we played that we were warriors. We would practice stealing upon some object that represented an enemy, and in our childish imitation often perform the feats of war. Sometimes we would hide away from our mother to see if she could find us, and often when thus concealed, go to sleep and perhaps remain hidden for many hours.

When we were old enough to be of real service, we went to the field with our parents: not to play, but to toil. When the crops were to be planted we broke the ground with wooden hoes. We planted the corn in straight rows, the beans among the corn, and the melons and pumpkins in irregular order over the field. We cultivated these crops as there was need.

Our field usually contained about two acres of ground. The fields were never fenced. It was common for many families to cultivate land in the same valley and share the burden of protecting the growing crops from destruction by the ponies of the tribe, or by deer and other wild animals.

Melons were gathered as they were consumed. In the autumn pumpkins and beans were gathered and placed in bags or baskets; ears of corn were tied together by the husks, and then the harvest was carried on the backs of ponies up to our homes. Here the corn was shelled, and all the harvest stored away in caves or other secluded places to be used in winter.

We never fed corn to our ponies, but if we kept them up in the wintertime we gave them fodder to eat. We had no cattle or other domestic animals except our dogs and ponies.

We did not cultivate tobacco, but found it growing wild. This we cut and cured in autumn, but if the supply ran out, the leaves from the stalks left standing served our purpose. All Indians    smoked, men and women. No boy was allowed to smoke until he had hunted alone and killed large game, wolves and bears. Unmarried women were not prohibited from smoking, but were considered immodest if they did so. Nearly all matrons smoked.

Besides grinding the corn for bread, we sometimes crushed it and soaked it, and after it had fermented, made from this juice a tiswin, which had the power of intoxication, and was very highly prized by the Indians. This work was done by the squaws and children. When berries or nuts were to be gathered the small children and the squaws would go in parties to hunt them, and sometimes stay all day. When they went any great distance from camp they took ponies to carry the baskets.

I frequently went with these parties, and upon one of these excursions a woman named Chokole got lost from the party and was riding her pony through a thicket in search of her friends. Her little dog was following as she slowly made her way through the thick underbrush and pine trees. All at once a grizzly bear rose in her path and attacked the pony. She jumped off, and her pony escaped, but the bear attacked her, so she fought him the best she could with her knife. Her little dog, by snapping at the bear's heels and distracting his attention from the woman, enabled her for some time to keep pretty well out of his reach. Finally the grizzly struck her over the head, tearing off almost her whole scalp. She fell, but did not lose consciousness, and while prostrate struck him four good licks with her knife, and he retreated. After he had gone she replaced her torn scalp and bound it up as best she could, then she turned deathly sick and had to lie down. That night her pony came into camp with his load of nuts and berries, but no rider. The Indians hunted for her, but did not find her until the second day. They carried her home, and under the treatment of their Medicine Men all her wounds were healed.

The Indians knew what herbs to use for Medicine, how to prepare them, and how to give the Medicine. This they had been taught by Usen in the beginning, and each succeeding generation had men who were skilled in the art of healing.

In gathering the herbs, in preparing them, and in administering the Medicine, as much faith was held in prayer as in the actual effect of the Medicine. Usually about eight persons worked together in make Medicine, and there were forms of prayer and incantations to attend each stage of the process. Four attended to the incantations, and four to the preparation of the herbs.

Some of the Indians were skilled in cutting out bullets, arrowheads, and other missiles with which warriors were wounded. I myself have done much of this, using a common dirk or butcher knife.

Small children wore very little clothing in winter and none in the summer. Women usually wore a primitive skirt, which consisted of a piece of cotton cloth fastened about the waist, and extending to the knees. Men wore breechcloths and moccasins. In winter they had shirts and legging in addition.

Frequently when the tribe was in camp a number of boys and girls, by agreement, would steal away and meet at a place several miles distant, where they could play all day free from tasks. They were never punished for these frolics; but if their hiding places were discovered they were ridiculed.

To celebrate each noted event, a feast and dance would be given. Perhaps only our own people, perhaps neighboring tribes would be invited. These festivities usually lasted for about four days. By day we feasted, by night under the direction of some chief we danced. The music for our dance was singing led by the warriors, and accompanied by beating the esadadedné. No words were sung only the tones. When the feasting and dancing were over we would have horse races, foot races, wrestling, jumping, and all sorts of games.

Among these games the most noted was the tribal game of Kah. It is played as follows: Four moccasins are placed about four feet apart in holes in the ground, dug in a row on one side of the camp, and on the opposite side a similar parallel row. At night a campfire is started between these two rows of moccasins, and the players are arranged on sides, one or any number on each side. The score is kept by a bundle of sticks, from which each side takes a stick for every point won. First one side takes the bone, puts up blankets between the four moccasins and the fire so that the opposing team cannot observe their movements, and then begin to sing the legends of creation. The side having the bone represents the feathered tribe, the opposite side represents the beasts. The players representing the birds do all the singing, and while singing hide the bone in one of the moccasins, then the blankets are thrown down. They continue to sing, but as soon as the blankets are thrown down, the chosen player from the opposing team, armed with a war club, comes to their side of the campfire and with his club strikes the moccasin in which he thinks the bone is hidden. If he strikes the right moccasin, his side gets the bone, and in turn represents the birds, while the opposing team must keep quiet and guess in turn. There are only four plays; three that lose and one that wins. When all the sticks are gone from the bundle the side having the largest number of sticks is counted winner.

This game is seldom played except as a gambling game, but for the purpose it is the most popular game known to the tribe. Usually the game lasts four or five hours. It is never played in daytime.

After the games are all finished the visitors say, We are satisfied, and the camp is broken up. I was always glad when the dances and feasts were announced. So were all the other young people.

Our life also had a religious side. We had no churches, no religious organizations, no Sabbath day, no holidays, and yet we worshiped. Sometimes the whole tribe would assemble to sing and pray; sometimes a smaller number, perhaps only two or three. The songs had a few words, but were not formal. The singer would occasionally put in such words as he wished instead of the usual tone sound. Sometimes we prayed in silence; sometimes each one prayed aloud; sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us. At other times one would rise and speak to us of our duties to each other and to Usen. Our services were short.

When disease or pestilence abounded we were assembled and questioned by our leaders to ascertain what evil we had done, and how Usen could be satisfied. Sometimes sacrifice was deemed necessary. Sometimes the offending one was punished.

If any one off the Denéé had allowed his aged parents to suffer for food or shelter, if he had neglected or abused the sick, if he had profaned our religion, or had been unfaithful, he might be banished from the tribe.

The Denéé had no prisons as white men have. Instead of sending their criminals into prison they sent them out of their tribe. These faithless, cruel, lazy, or cowardly members of the tribe were excluded in such a manner that they could not join any other tribe. Neither could they have any protection from our unwritten tribal laws. Frequently these outlaw Indians banded together and committed depredations which were charged against the regular tribe. However, the life of an outlaw Indian was a hard lot, and their bands never became very large; besides, these bands frequently provoked the wrath of the tribe and secured their own destruction.

When I was about eight or ten years old I began to follow the chase, and to me this was never work.

Out on the prairies, which ran up to our mountain homes, wandered herds of deer, antelope, elk, and buffalo, to be slaughtered when we needed them.

Usually we hunted buffalo on horseback, killing them with arrows and spears. Their skins were used to make tepees and bedding; their flesh, to eat.

It required more skill to hunt the deer than any other animal. We never tried to approach a deer except against the wind. Frequently we would spend hours in stealing upon grazing deer. If they were in the open we would crawl long distances on the ground, keeping a weed or brush before us, so that our approach would not be noticed. Often we could kill several out of one herd before the others would run away. Their flesh was dried and packed in vessels, and would keep in this condition for many months. The hide of the deer soaked in water and ashes and the hair removed, and then the process of tanning continued until the buckskin was soft and pliable. Perhaps no other animal was more valuable to us than the deer.

In the forests and along the streams were many wild turkeys. These we would drive to the plains, then slowly ride up toward them until they were almost tired out. When they began to drop and hide we would ride in upon them and, by swinging from the side of our horses, catch them. If one started to fly we would ride swiftly under him and kill him with a short stick, or hunting club. In this way we could usually get as many wild turkeys as we could carry home on a horse.

There were many rabbits in our range, and we also hunted them on horseback. Our horses were trained to follow the rabbit at full speed, and as they approached them we would swing from one side of the horse and strike the rabbit with our hunting club. If he was too far away we would throw the stick and kill him. This was great sport when we were boys, but as warriors we seldom hunted small game.

There were many fish in the streams, but as we did not eat them, we did not try to catch or kill them. Small boys sometimes threw stones at them or shot at them for practice with their bows and arrows. Usen did not intend snakes, frogs, or fishes to be eaten. I have never eaten of them.

There were many eagles in the mountains. These we hunted for their feathers. It required great skill to steal upon an eagle, for besides having sharp eyes, he is wise and never stops at any place where he does not have a good view of the surrounding country.

I have killed many bears with a spear, but was never injured in a fight with one. I have killed several mountain lions with arrows, and one with a spear. Both bears and mountain lions are good for food and valuable for their skin. When we killed them we carried them home on our horses. We often made quivers for our arrows from the skin of the mountain lion. These were very pretty and very durable.

During my minority we had never seen a missionary or a priest. We had never seen a white man. Thus quietly lived the Bedonkohe.

In the summer of 1858, being at peace with the Mexican towns as well as with all the neighboring Indian tribes, we went south into Old Mexico to trade. Our whole tribe went through Sonora toward Casa Grande, our destination, but just before reaching that place we stopped at another Mexican town called by the Indians Kaskiyeh. Here we stayed for several days, camping outside the city. Every day we would go into town to trade, leaving our camp under the protection of a small guard so that our arms, supplies, and women and children would not be disturbed during our absence.

Late one afternoon when returning from town we were met by a few women and children who told us that Mexican troops from some other town had attacked our camp, killed all the warriors of the guard, captured all our ponies, secured our arms, destroyed our supplies, and killed many of our women and children. Quickly we separated, concealing ourselves as best we could until nightfall, when we assembled at our appointed place of rendezvous, a thicket by the river. Silently we stole in one by one: sentinels were placed, and, when all were counted, I found that my aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children were among the slain. There were no lights in camp, so without being noticed I silently turned away and stood by the river. How long I stood there I do not know, but when I saw the warriors arranging for a council I took my place.

That night I did not give my vote for or against any measure; but it was decided that as there were only eighty warriors left, and as we were without arms or supplies, and were furthermore surrounded by the Mexicans far inside their own territory, we could not hope to fight successfully. So our chief, Mangus-Colorado, gave the order to start at once in perfect silence for our homes in Arizona, leaving the dead upon the field.

I stood until all had passed, hardly knowing what I would do. I had no weapon, nor did I hardly wish to fight, neither did I contemplate recovering the bodies of my loved ones, for that was forbidden. I did not pray, nor did I resolve to do anything in particular, for I had no purpose left. I finally followed the tribe silently, keeping just within hearing distance of the soft noise of the feet of the retreating Denéé.

The next morning some of the Indians killed a small amount of game and we halted long enough for the tribe to cook and eat, when the march was resumed. I had killed no game, and did not eat. During the first march as well as while we were camped at this place I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me, there was nothing to say.

For two days and three nights we were on forced marches, stopping only for meals, then we made a camp near the Mexican border, where we rested two days. Here I took some food and talked with the other Indians who had lost in the massacre, but none had lost as I had, for I had lost all.

Within a few days we arrived at our own settlement. There were the decorations that Alope had made, and there were the playthings of our little ones. I burned them all, even our tepee. I also burned my mother's tepee and destroyed all her property.

I was never again contented in our quiet home. True, I could visit my father's grave, but I had vowed vengeance upon the Mexican troopers who had wronged me, and whenever I came near his grave, or saw anything to remind me of former happy days my heart would ache for revenge upon Mexico.

As soon as we had again collected some arms and supplies Mangus-Colorado, our chief, called a council and found that all our warriors were willing to take the warpath against Mexico. I was appointed to solicit the aid of other tribes in this war.

When I went to the Chokonen, Cochise, their chief, called a council at early dawn. Silently the warriors assembled at an open place in a mountain dell and took their seats on the ground, arranged in rows according to their ranks. Silently they sat smoking. At a signal from the chief I arose and presented my cause as follows:

"Kinsman, you have heard what the Mexicans have recently done without cause. You are my relatives, uncles, cousins, brothers. We are men the same as the Mexicans are, we can do to them what they have done to us. Let us go forward and trail them, I will lead you to their city; we will attack them in their homes. I will fight in the front of the battle. I only ask you to follow me to avenge this wrong done by these Mexicans, will you come? It is well, you will all come.

Remember the rule in war, men may return or they may be killed. If any of these young men are killed I want no blame from their kinsmen, for they themselves have chosen to go. If I am killed no one need mourn for me. My people have all been killed in that country, and I, too, will die if need be."

I returned to my own settlement, reported this success to my chieftain, and immediately departed to the southward into the land of the Nedni. Their chief, Whoa, heard me without comment, but he immediately issued orders for a council, and when all were ready gave a sign that I might speak. I addressed them as I had addressed the Chokonen tribe, and they also promised to help us.

It was in the summer of 1859, almost a year from the date of the massacre of Kaskiyeh, that these three tribes were assembled on the Mexican border to go upon the warpath. Their faces were painted, the war bands fastened upon their brows their long scalp-locks ready for the hand and knife of the warrior who would overcome them. Their families had been hidden away in a mountain rendezvous near the Mexican border. With these families a guard was posted, and a number of places of rendezvous designated in case the camp should be disturbed.

When all were ready the chieftains gave command to go forward. None of us were mounted and each warrior wore moccasins and also a cloth wrapped about his loins. This cloth could be spread over him when he slept, and when on the march would be ample protection as clothing. In battle, if the fight was hard, we did not wish much clothing. Each warrior carried three days' rations, but as we often killed game while on the march, we seldom were without food.

We traveled in three divisions: the Bedonheko led by Mangus-Colorado, the Chokonen by Cochise, and the Nedni by Whoa; however, there was no regular order inside the separate tribes. We usually marched about fourteen hours per day, making three stops for meals, and traveling forty to forty-five miles a day.

I acted as guide into Mexico, and we followed the river courses and mountain ranges because we could better thereby keep our movements concealed. We entered Sonora and went southward past Quitaro, Nacozari, and many smaller settlements.

When we were almost at Arispe we camped, and eight men rode out from the city to parley with us. These we captured, killed, and scalped. This was to draw the troops from the city, and the next day they came. The skirmishing lasted all day without a general engagement, but just at night we captured their supply train, so we had plenty of provisions and some more guns.

That night we posted sentinels and did not move our camp, but rested quietly all night, for we expected heavy work the next day. Early the next morning the warriors were assembled to pray, not for help, but that they might have health and avoid ambush or deceptions by the enemy.

As we had anticipated, about ten o'clock in the morning the whole Mexican force came out. There were two companies of cavalry and two of infantry. I recognized the cavalry as the soldiers who had killed my people at Kaskiyeh. This I told to the chieftains, and they said that I might direct the battle.

I was no chief and never had been, but because I had been more deeply wronged than others, this honor was conferred upon me, and I resolved to prove worthy of the trust. I arranged the Indians in a hollow circle near the river, and the Mexicans drew their infantry up in two lines, with the cavalry in reserve. We were in the timber, and they advanced until within about four hundred yards, when they halted and opened fire. Soon I led a charge against them, at the same time sending some braves to attack the rear. In all the battle I thought of my murdered mother, wife, and babies; of my father's grave and my vow of vengeance, and I fought with fury. Many fell by my hand, and constantly I led the advance. Many braves were killed the battle lasted about two hours.

At the last four Indians were alone in the center of the field, myself and three other warriors. Our arrows were all gone, our spears broken off in the bodies of dead enemies. We had only our hands and knives with which to fight, but all who had stood against us were dead. Then two armed soldiers came upon us from another part of the field. They shot down two of our men and we, the remaining two, fled toward our own warriors. My companion was struck down by a saber, but I reached our warriors, seized a spear, and turned. The one who pursued me missed his aim and fell by my spear. With his saber I met the trooper who had killed my companion and we grappled and fell. I killed him with my knife and quickly rose over his body, brandishing his saber, seeking for other troopers to kill. There were none. But the Denéé had seen. Over the bloody field, covered with the bodies of Mexicans, rang the fierce Denéé war-whoop.

Still covered with the blood of my enemies, still holding my conquering weapon, still hot with the joy of battle, victory, and vengeance, I was surrounded by the Denéé braves and made war chief of all the Denéé. Then I gave orders for scalping the slain.

I could not call back my loved ones, I could not bring back the dead Denéé, but I could rejoice in this revenge. The Denéé had avenged the massacre of Kaskiyeh.

 

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Posted on Short Story

I Once Had a Girl

I once had a girl. She was from Norway, but we met in New York City at a jazz club on the West Side. My friend Lane had dragged me there; he told me that the sax player would really send me. (I know, that is 60s lingo). I didn’t want to go because I was broke and I was embarrassed that Lane always picked up the check when we were out. But he persisted in asking, so I went with him that warm August night. It was a night that changed my life forever.

Lane and I were from upstate New York, we had been friends in high school. We were both going to be writers and write the Great American Novel. And here we were, Lane wrote copy for an ad agency and I wrote short stories that no one would buy.

I was twenty years old, and had just dropped out of college. I wanted to be a writer and I did not think college was the way to go about it. I thought the only way to be a writer was to write. So I headed for the big city, found myself a roach-infested apartment and opened my laptop. I got lucky and sold my first short story to a weekly newspaper. It was a free paper, but they did print fiction. They paid me all of twenty-five dollars for it.

After that, I figured it would be only a matter of time before I had The New Yorker knocking at my door wanting me to write my genius fiction for them, and if not the New Yorker, then at least the Village Voice. Well, things did not work out that way. Six months later, I had not sold another story. The newspaper that had bought my first story was long out of business as I contemplated my future. I was nearing the end of my savings and something would have to break soon or I would have to get a job. Something did break and her name was Karina.

Unbeknownst to me, Lane and his girlfriend, whose name was Sally, set me up with a blind date. When we got to the club, I saw Sally sitting at a table with a blonde girl. I immediately grabbed Lane’s arm and halted his progress toward the table. “What’s the deal?” I asked in a low voice. Then I added, “If Sally is trying to set me up again, I’m leaving. You know I don’t have any money to date.”

With a phony and shocked look on his face, Lane said, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that the poor girl is in town and doesn’t know anyone. Sally’s mother and her mother were friends. Sally’s looking out after her, that’s all. Don’t worry; she’s not your date. And she’s got plenty of money; she can pay her own way.”

With a sigh and a shake of my head, I said, “Lay on, Macduff.”

We seated ourselves at the table and I was introduced to the blonde. Sally started right off yakking away, but I heard nothing she said. I was looking into the eyes of the blonde. They were green, the color of emeralds—they were sad eyes. She was good-looking in a not glamorous sort of way. There was something about her. Something that made me want to put my arms around her and tell her everything would all right. That night I fell in love, head over heels. To me, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. But it wasn’t her looks that got me. It was her soul. She looked vulnerable and she had those sad eyes. I know that’s a cliché, but that is what it was, plain and simple. I was hooked. Her name was Karina.

We talked and ignored both the music, and Lane and Sally. When Sally saw where things were going, she nudged Lane and said they had to go, but that we should stay. As they left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lane hand some money to our waitress and point our way. He had made sure that I wouldn’t be embarrassed for lack of funds.

The music was really too loud to carry on a conversation, so I suggested that we go somewhere more conducive to getting to know one another. I had no hope that she felt toward me as I felt toward her, but I just couldn’t let her go out of my life until I knew everything about her.

We settled in at a Starbucks and talked until the early morning. Her parents were both dead and had left her relatively well off. She was in the States because she owned a cabin in North Carolina, up in the mountains, and she had come here to sell it. At twenty-two, she was two years older than I was. But that was okay with me; I liked older women. I prattled on about my writing and she said that she would like to read some of my stuff someday. Someday? I wanted her to read my stories right then and there. But I held my tongue.

As I walked her to her hotel, she slipped her arm through mine and we walked on in silence. My feet never once touched the ground.

We said goodnight in the lobby of her hotel. She looked at me with those big sad eyes. “Please, may I see you tomorrow and read some of your stories?” Now normally, I would let anyone read my stuff at the drop of a hat, even if I had to drop the hat myself. But in this instance, I was reluctant to say yes. I didn’t want her to see how I lived. I mean, she was staying at the Plaza, for God’s sake! After a momentary hesitation, I told her I could bring my laptop over the next day and that I would be proud to have her read a few of my stories. We set a time and I left. We shook hands—we did not kiss goodnight.

Well, the short of it is, she was as smitten with me as I was with her. Why I don’t know. She postponed her trip south and stayed in the city. We saw each other every day. Sally must have told her about my financial situation, because Karina always insisted we go someplace that cost no money. We hit the art galleries and the museums, among other venues. Central Park was our favorite. As we walked through the park, the sunshine would ripple in her yellow hair like waves upon a sparkling ocean. At the end of two weeks, we both knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.

Karina liked my writing and told me I should be writing a full-length novel. Then, when that sold, I could put out a book of my short stories. No wonder that I loved her, she believed in me, more so than I believed in myself.

One day, a Sunday, as we lay on a blanket in the park holding hands (we still had not made love), Karina asserted herself. She told me in no uncertain terms that she was taking me to her cabin In North Carolina. She would cook and clean for me while I wrote my novel, and then when it sold, I could take care of her.

I told her that I would have to think on it. She stood and took my hand. I raised myself from the ground, and forgetting the blanket, we went back to the Plaza. We made long, slow love all that afternoon. And then again that night.

We hit the mountains of North Carolina as the leaves were changing. It was the perfect metaphor. Our lives were changing; we were melding into one entity.

As the snows came, I wrote and Karina loved me. I didn’t want to write. I wanted to make love to my girl, but she made sure I stayed at the computer at least six hours a day. The rest of the time I devoted to loving her.

As the snows melted and the leaves slowly returned to the trees, my book took form. Karina would read what I had written each day. She would correct my mistakes and give me input as to the characters and the plot. As I sat there in the evenings, seeing the firelight reflected in her eyes while she read my daily output, I fell in love with her all over again.

When spring was in full bloom, the book also bloomed. I had completed my version of the Great American Novel. I emailed my query letters to agents. Within a month, I had a signed contract. When summer came around, the book had been sold to a publisher and I had money in the bank. Now I could take care of my Karina. But it was not to be.

It was August once again, almost to the day that Karina and I first met. We were leaving the next day for New York. My agent had set up a meeting with my new editor. There was still work to be done. Writing the story is one thing, getting it out there is another. However, before leaving I wanted to buy something for my love. I went into town and bought Karina a ring. Nothing fancy, it was a simple band of gold. I was going to ask her to be my wife. I couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin, get down on one knee, and tell her of my love for her.

I saw the smoke long before I turned into the drive to our cabin. Then I saw the flames. I pulled the car to a stop, rushed to the cabin, and heard her screams. Those screams will never leave me.

“KARINA!” I shouted as I rushed the door.

When I pushed open the door, a blast of heat and flames knocked me on my ass. I got up; nothing short of hell was going to keep me out of that cabin. And that is exactly what kept me out . . . hell. I could not penetrate the flames. On my third attempt, the burns and resultant pain caused me to pass out. When I awoke, I was in a hospital’s burn ward.

Karina was gone and I was alone.

I sold the rights to my book to my agent. I couldn’t edit and work on it with anyone else now that Karina was gone. I took the money and bought a sailboat down in Miami. I had Karina painted on the sides in large letters the color of her eyes. I now sail the Caribbean, going from island to island, looking for nothing and finding nothing. I’m certainly not finding relief for the pain in my heart.

I once had a girl. Karina was her name.

 

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Posted on Short Story

In the Twinkling of an Eye

In the Twinkling of an Eye

Now I know you guys ain’t gonna believe this one, but I’ve got to tell it just the same. This all happened in 1984, long before the Internet, cell phones, and Lady Gaga. And please, when you’ve finished reading it, no emails, no phone calls, and no damn letters telling me I’m nuts. Because I already know it and what I’m about to tell ya just goes to prove the point.

My friend Rick and I were traveling through the mountains of Pennsylvania when it happened. We were heading to Colorado; he’s got his law practice out there. Me? I was just along for the ride. The day before, Rick had called and asked me to go with him. Help out with the driving and that kind of stuff. Or as he put it, “What else you got to do? Tag along. I’ll put the top down and the wind will blow the stink off ya.” I mean, how could anyone turn down an invitation like that?

So here’s the scene. We had left the Interstate and were on a small county road. We were looking for some place to grab a bit of food. It was about—no, it was exactly—a quarter to four in the morning. I remember because I looked over at the clock.

We’re in some kind of valley because there are mountains on both sides of the road. And there’s a fog appearing. Appearing from where? I don’t know, but this fog wasn’t descending like a good, decent fog should. No, this fog was coming up from the ground. It was weird. But now that I think about it, I believe it came from hell itself. However, at the time I was oblivious, as was Rick.

Just when the fog appeared, we hit a ghost town. Yeah … I know, ghost towns are supposed to be out in the West. Well, excuse me … this ghost town was somewhere (and don’t ask me where) in Pennsylvania.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat, looking at the buildings as they passed by. Man, were they spooky. Oh, I forgot to mention, it was a full moon, or damn near close to it. Anyway, with nothing else to do (Rick isn’t the best conversationalist in the world), I’m looking out the window at this town. All the buildings seem to have been constructed of wood, most of which had rotted away. I could see right through them to the moonlight and trees on the far side. It went on like that for mile after mile. Actually, the buildings looked as though they had sustained a fire, but I figured it was just a trick of my imagination, considering the fog and moonlight. After a while, I couldn’t see anything but the goddamn fog. When it really closed in, Rick slowed down, turned to me and said, “Where the hell are we?”

And I shot back, “You’re drivin’, pal. If you don’t know, then we’re lost.”

Rick may not be much of a conversationalist, but he’s hell-on-wheels when it comes to a quick comeback. His retort: “Screw you!”

It was just about then he saw it. I didn’t see it, but thank God he did, or you would not be reading these words. Right there in the middle of the road was a large, very large, pine tree. I mean really! What the hell is a pine tree, or any kind of tree for that matter, doing in the middle of a road that good, God-fearin’ people have to traverse? I’m not sayin’ Rick and I were God-fearin’, but you know what I mean.

As I’ve said, it was a good thing ol’ Rick was at the wheel because if I had been, we would have plowed into the damn thing. So Rick stops in time and we look at each other. And before either one of us can utter a word, a voice rings out, “WELCOME TO PERDITION!” When I say a voice rang out, well … boomed out might be closer to the truth.

Turning to Rick, I shouted, “Let’s get the hell outta here!” I didn’t have to tell him twice. Before the reverberation of the sound of my voice dissipated into the mist, Rick slammed the car into reverse and was burning rubber backwards. We were both looking out the rear window. Rick because he had to see where he was driving. And me? Because what else was I going to do?

We were moving at a fairly good clip considering we were going backwards, and in a fog. The backup lights didn’t illuminate much. So intent were we on peering into the white darkness that we didn’t see the obstacle in the road. It was another damn tree, though this one was a bit smaller, and we were on it before we knew it. I mean we were literally on it. The two back wheels bumped over it, but the front wheels didn’t make it. So there we were, the car’s chassis resting on the trunk of a pine tree, in the early morning hours, in the mountains of Pennsylvania, with a sinister fog closing in.

If that wasn’t bad enough, then the shapes appeared. They were dark and they oozed out of the mist. They had the shape of men, but because of the fog, we could not make out any discernible features, like eyes and noses, you know, that kind thing.

I must admit I was scared shitless. But at that moment, Rick brought me back to my senses, at least for a minute. He said, “Fuck this!” He got out of the car and played a wonderful bluff. He stood by his opened door and said, in a loud voice, “I am an officer of the court. You are interfering in official business and there will be repercussions if you do not remove the blockage of a state highway and allow us to proceed on our way.” As I said, it was a good bluff and it fortified me … for a moment. But when two of the dark forms enveloped him, and he disappeared before my eyes, well … I went right back to being scared shitless. Then I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head; a blackness overcame me and I lost consciousness.

I came out of my stupor slowly, and as I became more cognizant, I perceived my surroundings. I was lying on a hard earthen floor in what looked like a log cabin. There were no windows, but moonlight was seeping in from the spaces between the logs. There was a table against the far wall. On another wall, three chairs hung from hooks, and on still another wall was Rick … also hanging from a hook. His hands and feet were tied—he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey.

I was still a little slow on the uptake and I asked him if he was all right. His answer was a muffled “Mmm … ummm … umm!” That’s when I noticed the rag, balled up and stuffed into his mouth. I went and started to pull the gag out while Rick shook his head back and forth. Ignoring him, I removed the gag so that we could converse like normal people. And that just goes to show you, some people can be downright unappreciative. Instead of saying, “Thank you,” I was met with, “You idiot! Why do you think I was shaking my head? Screw the gag, get me down. My arms are killing me.”

Grasping him around the waist, I lifted him a few inches so that he could slide his tied hands off the hook, which he did. When I had him back on terra firma, I let go, and he toppled to the ground. I heard an exasperated sigh, followed by the words, “Will you please untie me so that if I feel so inclined, I can stand up without falling over!”

“Sorry, pal, I didn’t realize.” I got down on my knees and fumbled with the ropes in the dim moonlight until I had my friend freed. Well, freed may not be the right word. We were still in the cabin.

As Rick massaged his wrists, I asked him what had happened.

“You want to know what happened? Well, you’re asking the wrong guy. This is all I know. I was standing there one minute and the next minute I have a hand over my mouth and two brutes were half carrying and half dragging me into the fog. They were both massive and when they got me into this cabin, one of them hit me and the next thing I knew, I was hanging up like a side of beef and you were on the floor grabbin’ forty winks. And that’s about all I know. What’s your story?”

“I was knocked out at the car and came to in this here cabin. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. But why are we still here? Let’s get the hell outta here before they come back.”

“Go ahead and try the door. I don’t think you’ll be able to open it.”

I saw no lock, so I stood and pulled on the handle. Nothing. So I gave it a good yank. Still nothing. As I was gearing up for a third try, Rick interjected, “It opens outward. Before they muscled me into this damn place, I saw one of them remove what looked like a 4” x 4” sitting in slots across the door. Go ahead and try to push the door open and see what happens.” I did as asked and nothing happened.

“You see,” said Rick, “this is a jail cell and I don’t think we are the first to inhabit it.”

About then, the moonlight was changing to daylight, and it wasn’t long before we heard someone at the door. We both got to our feet and waited for whoever it was to make their entrance. We did not have long to wait.

The door creaked outward, and the small space within the cabin was flooded with sunlight. Both Rick and I were momentarily blinded, and then the shapes appeared again. However, now we could see them for what they were. At first there was only one; he entered the cabin and stood to the right of the door. Then other one came in and took a position to the left.

They were only men, albeit, big men—very big men. They each stood about six feet, six inches tall. They were well muscled, no fat on either one of them. I figured they weighed two fifty if they weighed an ounce. They wore black suits, but not the kind your friendly neighborhood undertaker would wear. No, these looked to be right out of the late 19th century. Kind of what a preacher would have worn back in those days.

At this point, Rick and I looked at one another and Rick cocked an eyebrow in my direction as if to ask, “What the hell?” And speaking of preachers, that’s exactly what turned up next. After the two behemoths were positioned on either side of the door, the star of the show appeared. He, in contrast to his minions, was a scrawny little guy. He was also dressed in the same archaic manner. He was about sixty years old and stood about five and a half feet tall. Rail thin with a few days’ growth of gray beard stubble, grizzled hair that looked greasy and was unkempt and which hung down almost to his shoulders. Unlike the other two, he wore a hat. It had a wide, circular brim just like the preachers of old wore. He did not come in, but stood framed in the doorway.

Without preamble, without introductions all the way around, without even a by-your-leave, he started right in. In a loud voice that would have been better suited to the two brutes standing on either side of the door he boomed, “REPENT YE SINNERS! REPENT WHILST YE STILL MAY DO SO. FOR THE JUDGEMENT OF THE LORD IS AT HAND!” He then raised his right hand over his head, and in it was a Bible. At least it looked like a Bible, and any thinking man would assume it to be a Bible. But I digress.

So, there we all stood … the monsters, the preacher, Rick, and I. No one said a word, no one said a thing. At length, I turned to Rick and said, “I want to hire you to act as my lawyer and I want you to sue that son-of-a-bitch for everything he’s worth. Which probably isn’t much more than the clothes he’s standing in. But that’s a cool hat.”

Replied Rick: “I’ll take the case. And when we win, I get his hat as my fee.”

However, The Preacher—as Rick and I took to calling him—forestalled any further attorney-client consultation by loudly intoning, “AT THE FULL OF THE MOON THE SACRIFICIAL LAMBS WILL BE OFFERED UP TO JEHOVAH. THEIR BLOOD WILL WASH AWAY THEIR SINS AND ALLOW THEM TO ENTER THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.”

Now, my first thought upon hearing the above was, “I wish he’d turn it down a notch. I’m getting a headache.” Then, all of a sudden, it hit me. “Did he say ‘sacrificial’ and ‘blood’?” And I think it hit Rick about the same time because he looked over to me and his smirk was completely gone, as I’m sure mine was. Up till then, we thought it was just some yahoo trying to save our eternal souls. However, after hearing his plans for us and looking at the non-smiling apes, we got the picture.

Before I could think of anything to say, like, Who the hell do you think you are? or something to that effect, Rick said, “You gotta be kidding me. Come on, Billy, let’s book,” and took a step toward the door. That’s when ape number one moved to block Rick’s egress. Rick tried to push pass him, but to no avail. Then The Preacher put in his two cents worth. “MY SONS ISAAC AND AARON WILL BRING YOU TO THE ALTAR OF PURIFICATION AT THE APPOINTED HOUR. TILL THEN, MAKE YOUR PEACE WITH YOUR MAKER.” And abruptly he was gone. I mean in a flash he was gone. I didn’t even see him move a muscle. It was as though he went up in a puff of smoke. Then the apes left, but in a more conventional manner; they walked out, shutting the door behind them.

Rick and I were left standing there like the two idiots we were. We should have tried to get out while the getting was good despite the apes. But we didn’t, so now we were locked in a small log cabin waiting for the moon to rise so that we could be killed by three psychos.

Finally, Rick said, “Well, if that doesn’t beat all!”

“It sure as hell does, pal. But I think there’s something weird about that little guy.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“No. I mean, I was standing right in front of him. He had the sun to his back and I could swear that at times he was transparent. But when he talked, he filled in. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what I saw.”

Rick walked over to me and gently said, “It’s been a rough night for both of us. We’re tired and I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as hell. So don’t worry about it. Let’s just figure a way out of here.”

He was right, so I asked him, “You got any ideas?”

Rick, for all his high-sounding lawyer talk, had no ready answer. Then I suggested we might dig under the logs and squirm our way out.

Rick told me that if I looked around the cabin, I’d see shallow depressions around the edges that looked like others had tried to dig their way out. And he was right. But that didn’t stop us from giving it the good old college try.

We found that the damn place had been built on a slab of granite, and a few inches under the dirt was solid rock. So, there was no getting out that way. And after an hour of going around the cabin looking for a weak spot that we could use to our advantage, we discovered nothing. Hence Rick, being the practical one, said that we should take two of the chairs down from the wall and hold a council of war. I agreed, and we did so.

I’ll spare you the details of all the stupid ideas we came up with. I think we discussed everything except having Buck Rogers descend in his spaceship to rescue us. However, in the end, we came to the conclusion that the only avenue of escape open to us was to run like hell when given the chance.

So this is what we came up with. When they came back for us and we heard them outside, we’d get ready. And when the door was cracked an inch, we’d both push with all our might (as feeble as that might be), rush past the giants, and haul ass down the mountainside.

Because he was conscious when brought to our place of incarceration, Rick knew that we were about two thousand yards above the road we had been taken from. We figured that all we had to do was run like hell and the man-mountains wouldn’t be able to catch us. After all, it would be downhill all the way. It was a simple plan formed by simple minds. They say that the simple plans are the best. Well, I’m here to you tell that is not necessarily so.

We sat in that damn cabin all day and watched the sunlight that came in through the cracks move slowly across the floor. Then the light got dim and then things got downright black outside—and inside—we couldn’t see a thing. While we sat there in the dark, we spoke of food. We talked of charred steaks smothered in onions—of grilled hamburgers with melted cheese and side orders of French fries. Surprisingly enough, salads did not enter into the conversation, but hell, we were macho guys. No sissy food for us.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the moon made its appearance. Its light slowly seeped into the cabin and we prepared ourselves. Rick and I, standing shoulder to shoulder, placed our hands flat on the door. The minute we heard the wooden bar being lifted, we were going to push for all we were worth.

And that is just what we did, and we did it with such force that the goons, Isaac and Aaron, were caught off guard. Rick and I were through the door and starting our sprint for freedom before they knew what was happening. Rick was a few feet in front of me because we had decided that he would lead the way, seeing as how he had a better sense of where we were in relation to the road. We were maybe a hundred feet out of the cabin and the goons still hadn’t moved. Things were looking up. That is, until a line from a Robert Burns poem came into play. “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men often go awry.”

I took a step and tripped over a root or something, and fell flat on my face. Rick heard me take the tumble and started back. But we didn’t have time for any heroics. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel the gruesome twins bearing down on us. So I did the only thing I could. I yelled at Rick, “Get your ass outta here!”  And with a quick nod, he did just that.

I don’t want you folks to think I was being a hero or anything like that. No, I was just being smart. I knew if Rick slowed down for me, the Bobbsey Twins would have us both. At least this way he could come back with some help.

Rick was gone and I was picked up by my arms—one goon on each arm. Then Daddy appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t seem concerned that Rick was no longer with us. He instructed the boys to tie me tight with a rope and then bring me to the “Altar of Purification.”

One of the monsters, it may have been Isaac, I couldn’t tell the sons-of-bitches apart, held me while the other went to get a rope. When he returned, they wrapped the rope around me and tied it so that my arms were pinned to my side.

After that, it was my turn to be treated like a slab of beef. One of the guys hefted me as though I were a sack of potatoes and slung me over his shoulder. As we made our way to wherever the damn altar was, I had a good view of the ground, seeing as how the top half of me was hanging down Aaron’s back—or it might have been Isaac’s back. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, that is when I noticed the fog coming up from the ground. It was the same kind of white mist we’d seen the night before. By the time we got to where we were going, it was well over the head of whoever was carrying me. Speaking about where we were going … it was a rock ledge, almost perfectly flat, about four feet off the ground and a few hundred yards from the cabin. I was unceremoniously dumped upon said ledge, also known as the Altar of Purification.

So there I was, flat on my back and helpless. Then out of the mist came The Preacher. In one hand he held his Bible, and in the other, the biggest goddamn damn knife I’ve ever seen. The blade was a foot long, the handle six inches. It looked more like a sword than a knife, at least to me, lying in my precarious position.

He stood looking down at me with his sons, one on either side of him. Next, he raised his hands over his head, the Bible in one, the knife in the other, and started to pray. Well, I don’t mind telling you I said a few prayers of my own right about then. And in between praying, I was grateful for the fact that Rick had gotten away because I knew with certainty that it wasn’t going to be too long before that knife made a swift descent and was imbedded in Yours Truly.

Then time slowed down, it almost came to a halt. It seemed to me that we were all frozen in some weird tableau. My eyes were fixated on the knife and it became the only thing in the world to me. I prayed for the nightmare to be over and that I’d awake in the car seated next to Rick with us barreling down the highway.

All the while the mist continued to rise, enveloping us in its whiteness as it swirled higher and higher.

About then, I decided it would probably be better to close my eyes and wait for the inevitable. But before I could wrench my gaze from the knife, two things happened simultaneously. The knife flew out of The Preacher’s hand and I heard a gunshot.

As soon as the knife left The Preacher’s hand, I closed my eyes and rolled to my left. I just knew the damn thing was going to get me. But it clattered harmlessly onto the rock, barely missing my head. And when I opened my eyes, the three creeps were gone and Rick was standing over me, looking concerned.

Breathing hard, as though he was out of breath, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I am now. But where the hell did you come from, and is that a gun in your hand?” Before he could say anything, I added, “Untie me; get these goddamn ropes off me!” As he untied the rope, the mist lightened and seemed to be seeping into the ground.

When I was free, Rick said it would behoove us to get out of there before our “friends” came back. I had to agree; following Rick, we made our way down the mountain. It wasn’t too hard because the mist was almost gone by then and we had a full moon.

We made the road in no time flat. Rick turned left and I followed. I was about to start peppering him with questions when up ahead I saw his car. It was sitting on the side of the road just as pretty as you please. And there was no sign of the tree it was sitting on the last time I saw it. It was then that I hit him with a thousand questions.

Rick said he’d tell me what he could, but first we had to go back to the last town that we had passed and report our little mishap to the local law. Him being a lawyer, he would suggest that. Personally, I was for hightailing it out of that country and the sooner the better, but I said nothing.

I’ll save you the back and forth of our conversation and just tell you what I learned.

When I had fallen and told him to keep going, Rick did so only because he knew he’d need some fire power against the two giants if he was to effect my rescue. It turned out that he kept a gun—a pistol—in the trunk of his car. When he got to the highway, he was as amazed as I had been to see his car off the tree and on the shoulder of the road. His only concern was about the keys. If they were gone, he didn’t know how he’d get into the trunk. But they were right where they were supposed to be, in the ignition.

The rest was pretty straightforward. He went back up the mountain, found the cabin, and was led to where I was by The Preacher’s loud voice as he prayed over me. When he saw the knife, he took a bead and knocked it out of The Preacher’s hand. I told him that that was pretty good shooting. That’s when he informed me that he was aiming for the son-of-a-bitch’s heart, but the gun recoiled and he hit the knife instead.

There was one thing that we didn’t understand. Well, there were a lot of things we didn’t understand, but one thing in particular baffled us. Where had the bad guys gone? If you remember, I had my eyes closed when they vamoosed; I thought they had just run away. But Rick had been only twenty or so yards from the action and he told me it looked to him as though they had vanished into thin air. But we didn’t dwell on it.

The closest town was about eight miles from the scene of the crime. But it did us no good. Initially that is. The place was a one-horse town if I’ve ever seen a one-horse town, and I have. The sheriff’s office was closed up tight, so we made our way to an all-night diner. There we were informed that the sheriff or his deputy would be in about eight o’clock in the morning and there was nothing we could do until then. Rick asked the counterman who had supplied us with the info what the town folks did if there was an emergency in the middle of the night.

His answer: “There hasn’t been one so far.”

So, seeing that there was nothing we could do until the appointed time, and as we were hungry as hell, we ordered just about everything on the menu (which wasn’t much) and killed time until the local constabulary deigned to make an appearance.

When eight o’clock rolled around, we finished the last of our coffee and went to the counter to pay our bill. As we were collecting our change, the big man himself walked in. His name, we were to learn, was John Brown, Sheriff John Brown. He was thin with gray hair and I figured him for about sixty years old. We approached him, and Rick started to tell him our tale of woe. But after a few words, the sheriff held up a hand and said, “Unless there is imminent danger of grievous bodily harm or someone is lying dying somewhere, then let’s adjourn to my office. I’m just no good in the morning until I’ve had my first cup of joe.”

What else could we do? We waited for him to get his Styrofoam cup of coffee, and then the three of us walked to his office. Once he was comfortably seated behind his desk and contently slurping his coffee and we were seated in the two chairs before the desk, Rick laid out our story.

When Rick had concluded his account of the previous night’s adventures, Sheriff Brown didn’t say a word. He swiveled in his chair and hit the switch to the two-way radio on the stand next to the desk. Speaking into the mic, he said, “You there, Abe?” When an affirmative answer came forth, he went on, “I have to take a run out on the county road and I need you to hold down the fort. If I need you, I’ll call.” Having taken care of business, he flipped the switch to the off position and said, “Let’s go.”

With Rick in the front seat of the sheriff’s car and me in the back, we headed out. On the way, Sheriff Brown asked a few pertinent questions which we answered. One of the questions was what happened to the knife? When we heard that, Rick and I just looked at one another and felt stupid. We had been in such a hurry to get away that we didn’t think to take the knife. The last time I saw it, it was lying where it had fallen when it was shot out of The Preacher’s hand. Then the sheriff asked where exactly along the road did we encounter the pine trees. Rick hesitated, but then he said things looked different in the daylight and he wasn’t quite sure where we encountered the trees.

Feeling brilliant, I said, “We came upon the first tree right after the ghost town.”

Said the sheriff: “What ghost town?”

Said I: “You know … the one along here somewhere, on the north side of the road.”

Said the sheriff: “There ain’t no ghost town in this neck of the woods.”

Said I: “Yes, there is. I saw it last night. It runs on for a couple of miles.”

Hoping to get confirmation, I asked Rick, “You saw it, right?”

Rick wasn’t much help. He informed me that with the fog coming up, he kept his eyes on the road. Or to put it in his words, “I didn’t have time for sightseeing.”

To no one in particular I stuttered, “But … but I know what I saw.”

The sheriff said. “This is my county, boy, and if there was a ghost town in these parts, I’d know about it. Now, if you boys can point out to me where the alleged abductions took place, I can start my investigation.”

“Alleged abductions!” Rick and I said in unison.

Well, to make a long, sad story short, we never did find the place where we hit the trees. In fact there were no cut trees, pine or otherwise, along the road. So, no trees, no ghost town, no nothing! We just couldn’t pinpoint where all the shit took place. And if we couldn’t do that, then there was no way we’d ever find the cabin.

On the way back to town, the sheriff made what for me was a startling statement. “You know, all this talk of a ghost town kinda reminded me of Jasper.”

Rick beat me to the punch. “Jasper? Who the hell is Jasper?”

“Jasper,” said the sheriff, “isn’t a who, it’s a what. And what Jasper is, or was, is a town that was burnt down about a hundred years ago. Some crazy preacher took a torch to it. When I was growing up, us kids told spook stories about it. And it was always claimed that the spirit of the preacher was seen on the nights of the full moon, roaming the hills over there.” As he said that, he pointed to the north.

Once again, Rick and I looked at one another. We didn’t have to speak. The thought was there. ‘Crazy preacher’! But before we could say anything, the sheriff said, “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to hear about no ghost preacher snatching you out of your car! Are you boys foolin’ with the law? Because if you are, I won’t take kindly to it.”

Rick slouched in his seat, folded his arms and put on his lawyer face. I did the opposite. I leaned forward and said to the sheriff, “Everything we told you is the truth. And we don’t believe in ghosts. Maybe it was some local nut who knows the story of the crazed preacher and gets his jollies kidnapping and murdering people in that vein.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “You ever have a missing person report where the person was last seen along this stretch of road?”

After thinking for a moment, he answered. “No, we haven’t. Well, at least not recently. But when I took over as sheriff, I was handed a file by my predecessor. He told me it was the only unsolved case of his career; it goes back to 1934. There was a car found abandoned somewhere out here. It belonged to an out-of-state gent, like you fellas. He was never found. But it could not have anything to do with your boy. That was fifty years ago.”

“I think I speak for my friend as well as myself when I say that we’re getting out of this state just as fast as we can. But before we go, I’d like to know a little something about the firebug preacher. Is there any place in town that might have some more information on him and the town of Jasper?”

“You’ll be wanting to speak with Miss Wells. She’s our town librarian and the town’s unofficial historian. I can drop you off there and then I’ve got to attack a stack of paperwork back at my office that’s been staring at me for a week.”

So, we drove on in silence. Rick hadn’t said a word since the sheriff accused us of making up the whole sordid tale. Then just before we hit the outskirts of town, a thought entered my cranium. I asked the sheriff if he knew what date the car was found in 1934. He said that he didn’t, but that when he got back to his office, he’d check the file and call us at the library. I think he was feeling a little guilty for not being able to help us.

Sheriff Brown brought us to the library and introduced us to Miss Wells. She was in her fifties and wasn’t a bad looker. I wondered why it was Miss Wells. Rick, well, he was still sulking and mumbled in my ear, “Let’s blow this pop stand. I’ve got a law practice waiting for me in Denver.” I informed him that it was his idea to go to Johnny Law, and now all I wanted was to get a few salient facts about the original preacher. Just something to comfort me in my dotage when I think back about what we had gone through. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Lay on, McDuff.”

I told Miss Wells we were looking for any information on the fire that destroyed Jasper and of the perpetrator that started said fire.

She gave me a dazzling smile (again I wondered why it Miss Wells) and told me that, off the top of her head, she knew that the preacher’s name was Jeremiah Stone, that he was a fire (no pun intended) and brimstone type. But she said that was par for the course in that day and age. Then she blew me away when she said, “You can read an account of the fire that was printed in the local paper on the one year anniversary. And I believe there is a picture of Parson Stone.”

I told her that I would indeed like to read anything she had on the subject.

Walking to a file cabinet, she opened the top drawer and withdrew a small box about three inches by three inches. She led us to a viewing machine while telling us that the relevant newspaper story was on film. “The Clarion Dispatch,” she said, “was our local paper. It went out of business years ago; however, we have all their editions on microfiche.”

When we got to the machine, she inserted the reel and started fast forwarding the tape, stopping every once in a while to peruse the date. Finally she came to April 23, 1885. And there he was, The Preacher, staring out at us from the past. It was an old-time photograph; they used to call them “family portraits.” Seated on a small couch, next to a woman, sat our tormentor, hat in hand. And standing on either side of the two were the boys, Isaac and Aaron.

Miss Wells missed the look that passed between me and Rick. She simply said, “This is the article. When you are finished, leave the tape in the machine. I’ll rewind it.” Then she left us to our own devices.

The first thing I said to Rick after the lovely Miss Wells had departed was, “Look at the date.”

You know, I never put much stock in lawyers, and Rick just reinforced that image when he said, “Yeah, I see it. So what?”

“So what! I’ll tell you ‘so what’! Today is April the 23rd. That article said the fire was set “yesterday,” which would mean April the 22nd. Don’t you get it? That crazy son of a bitch burned down his town exactly one hundred years ago to the day that he grabbed us. Look at that picture. You know it’s the same asshole.”

Rick’s reply: “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

My response: “Neither did I until two minutes ago.”

Rather than continue arguing with my pal, I started to read the article. I was seated in a chair and Rick read over my shoulder. This is the gist of the story.

Jeremiah Stone had been the pastor of Jasper for a number of years and was well liked by the town folk. He was married with two sons. The sons were “touched” or “pixilated,” or—as we would say today—mildly retarded. Then, in the autumn of 1883, his wife died and Stone went into seclusion with his sons. When he emerged a month later, he was a different man. His sermons were of redemption by purification; he started talking of blood sacrifices to appease an angry God, and of fire as a means of purification.

In the early morning hours of April 22nd, 1884, fire broke out in the town of Jasper. It seemed to be jumping from house to house, from building to building. The town’s people gathered on the main street, the men forming a bucket brigade, the woman and children huddled together.

The fire was too well advanced to put out, and it was while the people stood in the street watching their homes and businesses burn, that three men ran up and said they had witnessed Pastor Stone and his sons, at the other end of town, setting fire to the few remaining houses not already engulfed in flames. Everyone ran to that section of town and arrived just as Stone and his sons were entering the church—the only building in town not on fire.

Two men, town leaders, said that they’d go in and speak with the preacher and see what it was all about. But when they started for the church, the crowd followed. They had a stake in the catastrophe and wanted answers. So, instead of the two going into the church, the town’s people stood outside and yelled for the preacher to show himself, which presently he did.

Holding his Bible over his head (as I’d seen him do), he told his flock that they were now purified and ready for the Kingdom of Heaven. That’s when the first torch was thrown. It landed at the preacher’s feet, then another and another. The preacher retreated into the church. Then someone ran to the front door and poured lantern oil onto the small flames of the torches. The fire quickly spread and soon the church was ablaze. As the roof fell in, the people heard, over the roar of the fire and in a loud clear voice, these words, “I AND MINE ARE CLEANSED! TODAY WE SHALL BE WITH YOU IN HEAVEN.”

The people stayed until the church was no more. Then they slowly filed away to search the ruins of their homes for anything left of value. The town was abandoned and never rebuilt.

As we finished reading the article, Miss Wells walked up and said she had a message for us from the sheriff. “He said to tell you that he checked the file and the car was found on April 23nd, 1934.”

We thanked Miss Wells for her help and left the library. While walking back to Rick’s car, I said, “That crazy son-of-a-bitch took someone on the fiftieth anniversary of the fire and then he tried to do the same to us on the hundredth.”

Rick only said, “You know, we haven’t slept in forty-eight hours and I’m not one bit tired. I think I’ll drive straight through to Denver. Let’s get out of this goddamn part of the country.”

I could only agree and wholeheartedly concur with my friend.

From that moment on, Rick was a changed man. He didn’t mind some nut job trying to kill us. He could handle that. But when it came to the supernatural that was something else altogether.

We didn’t speak much during the rest of the trip. Rick refused to discuss The Preacher or anything concerned with what we had gone through. He seemed somehow embarrassed about something. When we got to Denver, I caught a plane back to New York. It has now been more than thirty years since that night, and Rick and I have not spoken since. I tried contacting him, but he would not return my phone calls or answer my letters. I believe he thinks I would only remind him of something that he does not want to face—something outside his learning.

As Will Shakespeare so aptly put it: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

I didn’t lose my life that night, but I think I lost something much more dear to me than my miserable life. In the twinkling of an eye, I lost a good friend.

DAMN YOU TO HELL, PREACHER STONE!

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In the Early Morning Rain

In the Early Morning Rain

(With apologies to Gordon Lightfoot)

I have a longing in my heart—a yearning in my soul—as I stand here in the early morning rain.

I’d best be on my way, but the thought of you keeps me standing here—in the early morning rain.

I’ll be leaving this town ’cause I can find no work and I’m down to my last dollar.

I have nothing; I am nothing, so I cannot approach you. Instead, I stand here in the early morning rain and look to where you live. I want only one last look at you and then I’ll go—one look at you through a window—in the early morning rain.

I have nowhere to go and no one waiting for me when I get there. But the vision of you in my heart will sustain me, if I can only see you one more time—through the early morning rain.

I’m a long way from home, in miles and in time. I’ve been alone forever. I thought I needed no one, but now after having seen you but once, I find myself in the early morning rain with an aching in my heart.

There you are! You passed by the window, it was only a glimpse I had of you.

Now I’ll be on my way—in the early morning rain.

 

 

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The Preacher

Standing on the graveyard grass, looking down at the freshly filled grave, stood The Preacher dressed in black and wearing a black, circular, wide-brim hat. There was not a headstone as of yet, but The Preacher knew the name of the occupant. It was his brother. Five days previously, he had murdered the man who now lay under the earth at his feet. The Preacher did not want to kill this one. He felt he had to, and he knew with a certainty that he would have to kill again . . . and soon.

After saying a prayer over his brother’s buried body, The Preacher walked slowly back to the highway. As he walked, he thought of how unnecessary it had all been. All his brother had to do was not interfere in the Lord’s work. It should have made no difference that the work involved the killing of Junior McGuire.

As The Preacher walked, he thought back to his last conversation with his brother.

“You must not interfere.”

“You’ve been killing since you were a boy. But you was family, so I held my own peace.”

“I am family to man.”

“You always were different, even when we was kids. But now you come to town and tell me you must take Junior McGuire. Well, Junior is a friend of mine. He’s the mayor of this town, for God’s sake.”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain. Are those your last words on the matter?”

“Yup, I just can’t let you kill Junior McGuire.”

The conversation replayed itself repeatedly in The Preacher’s mind.

Now that there were no more obstacles, The Preacher could be about the Lord’s work. And this time, the Lord’s work was the quick dispatch of Junior McGuire.

The Preacher had been at this work a long time. Sometimes he wearied of the mission the Lord had bestowed upon him. However, he believed that no matter how weary, he must persevere until he was allowed a rest or brought to his just reward.

The walk from the graveyard into town was a short one. Before he knew it, The Preacher found himself standing in front of McGuire’s Dry Goods Emporium. Without hesitation, The Preacher entered and sought out The McGuire.

The store was empty, but filled with people or not, it made no difference to The Preacher. He was about God’s work. He proceeded to the back room where he encountered a man of about fifty stacking cartons in a corner. The Preacher inquired of the man, “Are you McGuire?” When an affirmative response was forthcoming, The Preacher laid his hands upon the sinner.

The Preacher had been at this so long he felt as though he could see the soul of the damned leave the body and pass through the floorboards on its way to perdition.

As The Preacher left McGuire’s, he thought to himself, “I pray the time never comes when I enjoy this work.”

The End

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The Plan

The events chronicled below took place in 1981, long before personal computers and cell phones. And was written at the time all the shit went down.

The Plan

There is probably no such thing as the perfect crime because people just cannot keep their big yaps shut—like me. The fog is rolling in off the bay and it’s starting to get cold, so I had better get my story down while I can still sit outside.

Let me explain. I’m here at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco. I just had a bellhop run out and buy me a portable typewriter and set it up on my balcony facing famous San Francisco Bay, which is where I ended up after committing my perfect crime.

It all started a week ago today. There was really nothing to distinguish that Saturday from any other in recent memory, except I had a very bad cold or a light flu. I got out of bed because I wanted to look over the morning paper. Going straight for the newspaper every morning is more of a habit than anything else. I surely didn’t expect to find another Watergate on the front page. As a matter of fact, the front page held just what I’d expected. Ronald Reagan said this, Ronald Reagan said that. I skipped those articles, which brought my attention down to a small headline on the bottom of the first page.

“RUTHLESS SMUGGLER USED LUXURY YACHT TO FOOL COAST GUARD”

This looks interesting, I thought, as I started to read the article. It seems this individual used large and very expensive yachts, complete with uniformed crew, an old man sitting in a wheelchair on the back deck, and even a phony nurse in attendance when conducting his business—smooth, really smooth.

However, as I read on, it appears this individual, whose name was Thompson, also killed a few of his cronies along the way. Some of them for the usual reasons, such as stealing from him. Others had to die simply because they had made more money than they knew what to do with and decided to retire. Well, Thompson took care of their retirement for them. He had them gagged, wrapped in chains, put on board one of his boats, and brought out to the Gulf Stream, which is about three miles off the coast of Miami. Once there, they were placed on the transom, a bullet put into their heads, and their bodies then dumped into the warm waters of the fast moving Gulf Stream. This Thompson was a real nice kind of guy.

Even though I felt like I was dying, I had to make a quick trip with my girlfriend down to Islamorada—which is in the middle of the Florida Keys—to help her clean a house she owns and which she had contracted to rent. I didn’t drive for a change, because of the way I felt, and this gave me a chance to reflect upon the story I had just read. For some reason, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

It was getting late by the time we hit Islamorada; there would be no cleaning that Saturday. We decided to get some KFC, take it to the house, and cuddle up with it in front of the television. That was the end of Thompson for that day.

The next morning, I awoke first and, half because it was cold and half because I didn’t want to wake my girl, I just lay in bed. However, my mind was going about a thousand miles a minute. And the only thing on my mind was Thompson. I kept thinking about all the cash the newspaper said he had accumulated. The part that struck me the most was how, when things started to get a little warm for him, Thompson had a floor safe installed and encased in concrete at a close friend’s home. His own house was bursting with safes filled with cash. Thompson made frequent deposits, and in a very short time, there was over $600,000.00 in the safe. At this point, his close “friend” rented a jackhammer, removed the safe, and took off. When Thompson caught up with said friend that was the last anyone saw of him—the friend that is. The point being, this cat had a lot of serious cash lying around, and now that he was in jail for probably the rest of his natural life, it wasn’t going to do him very much good. What a shame.

As I lay there on that cold Sunday morning (it’s February as I write this), it came to me. I don’t know exactly when or how, but before I knew it, it was there, fully formed … the whole, gorgeous, wonderful plan. There were a few minor details to work out, but by the time we got back to Miami later that night, even they had worked themselves out in my head.

I could hardly wait for the morning to roll around so I could do what needed doing.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that there was one small catch, or to term it another way, the entire plan hinged on the fact that Thompson was so far outside the law that if he smelled a rat, the coppers would be the last people he’d turn to. But, it was a contingency I had to take into account. No matter how I positioned the plan, it always came back to, What if he goes to the authorities? It was the one weak link. I would have to anticipate it, plan for it, and hope it didn’t happen. Nothing is for certain in this life, and to make the kind of money I envisioned, some risks were bound to be inherent.

The next morning, I stayed in bed until my girlfriend left for work. I didn’t have to worry about mundane things of that sort, seeing as how I hadn’t been able to keep a job for more than a few weeks for the last two years. But that’s another story.

As soon as I heard the door close behind her, I was up and on the phone. My first call was to the Broward County Jail, inquiring as to Mr. Thompson’s attorney of record. When you’re in jail, only your immediate family can visit you, and then only once a week. But your attorney can see you anytime. If he had listed an attorney, then I would have to go through the attorney and that would mean contact with another human being, which would be another weak link, another loose thread, another potential problem. I was afraid the man on the other end of the phone would hear the big smile on my face when he said, “No attorney designated yet.”

Scratch one potential hazard.

That meant I’d have to get up to the jail in Ft. Lauderdale immediately. There was no time to waste. I went right to the closet and got out my blue pinstripe, three-piece suit, and an old battered attaché case I had lying around from a previous life. Ft. Lauderdale is about twenty miles from Miami, and it’s all city driving. On the way, I stopped in at a lawyer’s office, located in a strip shopping center, and availed myself of a few of his business cards, which he had conveniently left lying about his outer waiting room. I wanted an attorney that practiced in Miami as opposed to Ft. Lauderdale, thus cutting down the chances of having the name recognized by one of the correctional officers at the Broward County jail.

I parked two blocks from the courthouse-jail complex. It wouldn’t do to be seen stepping out of a ten-year-old Toyota if I’m supposed to be a big shot lawyer. Besides, if anything went wrong, I didn’t want anyone to get my license number. I walked into the jail annex and inquired of the officer behind the desk as to the proper procedure for seeing an inmate, explaining the family of a Mr. Thompson had sent me. I then handed him one of my new business cards. He in turn handed me a form to fill out, which basically wanted my name and the name of the prisoner I wished to see. After taking the form from me, inspecting said form, and looking at the business card I had given him, he said, “Because you’re not the attorney of record, if he refuses to see you, you’re out of luck.” I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders. I figured when you’re in jail you’ll see anybody, if for no other reason than to break the monotony. And it turned out I was right.

After about ten minutes, the name I was using—the lawyer’s name—was called over a loud speaker. Because it was not my real name, it took me a moment to realize that it was me they were calling. But I responded before the name had to be called a second time.

I was led into a small room with two chairs and one table. That was all. Even the walls were bare. The officer told me my client would be with me in a minute, and to please have a seat. I didn’t know if I was being watched, filmed, or what. My adrenalin was flowing like white water rapids, but outwardly I looked extremely bored with the entire situation. I knew that to make my plan work, I’d have to come off as cool, calm, and collected. After all, this man kills as easily as you and I go across the street to buy a newspaper. Besides, to accumulate as much money as he had, a portion of which I was hoping to relieve him of, I had to give him his due. He wasn’t a dummy, even if he had been caught.

After a few moments, the door opened and a man in his mid-fifties was led into the room. The guard said nothing; he pointed to the vacant chair, turned, and left. I said nothing until the door closed behind him. They may spy on me, but I knew they were prohibited from listening in on a lawyer and his client. As soon as the door closed, I smiled, extended my hand, and told Thompson my name, the one on the business card, of course. He shook my hand and leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face. He then said, “Looking for work, counselor?”

I didn’t hesitate. “You want to be free of here?” I asked, looking right into his eyes without the slightest hint of a smile on my face. I continued, “You’re looking at thirty years just for the drugs. We won’t even talk about the murder charges. If you do get the whole enchilada, you’re not going to be doing too much partying when you get out. You’ll be almost ninety.” His smirk slowly faded and with it his air of cockiness. To him I sounded serious about getting him out, and that was no laughing matter. As I saw the look on his face change, I knew I was going to be in charge from then on.

Now I had a chance to take stock of the slight man who sat before me. He didn’t look like a killer, but then, I didn’t know what a killer should look like. The only thing that struck me that day was the deadness of his eyes. They were brutally cold. He had an average face, not one you would remember in a crowd.

I didn’t take too long in sizing him up. If I were going to be in charge, I would have to carry the conversation. I would have to set the tone of our relationship.

I told him I had a plan to get him free. I was going to get him on the streets and then he could disappear. I next referred to the connections I had in the Broward County Jail, which would be of great assistance in getting him free. I went on to tell him that, even though I could get him on the streets, I wouldn’t stop there; I would also get him out of the country.

He had no problem with that. I didn’t think he would. I told him that if he mentioned my plan to anyone, and I meant anyone, he would never see me again. For the pieće de résistance, and to help him along with his silence, I told him I could arrange for someone to be put in with him that would report back to me. And if I heard that he even so much as whispered my plan in his sleep, he could rot in jail for the next six hundred and fifty years.

Up to that point, it was my aim to convince him that I could deliver and that I was deadly serious. I gave him no particulars. I was feeling him out. He then asked for details. I told him he would be told only what he needed to know, having heard that in a movie somewhere. I suggested we discuss the money aspect of the plan first, to see if he could afford my services.

“My fee is $750,000.00, plus expenses,” I told him. I was prepared to defend the expense by explaining that, a) he would be spending at least that much for his defense, b) prosecutors in South Florida, when taking drug cases to trial, had a conviction rate of over 90%—this according to Trial Magazine, which is published by the Florida Bar Association. In addition c) if he ever wanted to see the light of day again, I was his only hope. However, I didn’t need any of that.

All he said was, “What guarantee can you give me?”

I answered, “A lot better than anyone else can, and besides you’ve got my business card, you know who I am, and you know where to find me. With your reputation, I’m going to return your cash if I can’t get you out of here.” He then asked me when I wanted the money. Because we both wanted to get the plan underway, I asked him if he could have it together by the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. He said he could. I then elaborated on the plan, and how it was going to work.

Through my connections in the Broward Sheriff’s Office, I would have him transferred to the hospital. He, of course, would have to be really sick or injured. We could not take the chance of having his request denied; things would have been set up and people would be waiting for him to arrive at the hospital. I informed him I would make sure he got to the hospital. And once there, I would have it arranged for someone to take his place in bed while he was put on a waiting plane that would take him to a small island in the Caribbean with its own lading strip. He would be there before it was known he was missing, and the person taking his place would know nothing. “The guy could not reveal anything even if he wanted to; he’ll be just a dupe that I’ll hire for a few thousand.”

“They’re gonna have me handcuffed to the bed. What about that?”

“I’ll have a key.”

I went on to tell him that, after lying low for a while, another plane, a larger one—a Gulfstream G600—would pick him up and take him to a safe country in Europe. Where, complete with a new identity, he would be left on his own. It all sounded good to Thompson. I thought it would.

I had already worked out the scenario as to how I’d end up with the money in my greedy little hands. I had assumed he would have to make a phone call to someone on the outside to secure the cash and physically hand it to me, and I was right—again. I laid out how, when, and where I wanted the money transferred. $750,000.00 for me, and $250,000.00 for expenses, up to, and including, the new identity in Europe. We also agreed that he would not hire an attorney, as an attorney would be just one more potential hitch in the plan, someone to ask unnecessary questions. After I had the money, I would return to the jail one more time because it would be necessary in order to get him admitted to the hospital.

“If the drop goes according to plan, I’ll be back here on Thursday. By Thursday night, you’ll be enjoying Piña Coladas on the beach, under a palm tree.”

We stood to shake hands. Thompson took a firm grip of my hand, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “If you screw me, I’ll have you killed.” The way he said, I’ll have you killed, left no doubt that’s exactly what would happen if I didn’t come through.

I replied, “I’ve taken that into consideration.” I turned and knocked on the door, leaving Thompson sitting back down in the chair. I did not look back.

As I hit the streets and the bright sunlight made my eyes squint, the adrenaline was really pumping. At that point, I knew only one thing for certain. I needed a drink. So, I stopped in at the first lounge I saw and had a double bourbon on the rocks to calm myself down.

As stated earlier, I was apprehensive that Thompson might rat me out after I left. However, after speaking with him, I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. The entire plan revolved around the fact that no one but me and Thompson were privy to it. Time after time, you hear about people being arrested because someone talked, or an anonymous tip came in, or whatever. It’s all the same thing, someone talked. As long as it was only Thompson and myself, my chances were good. But I didn’t trust Thompson to keep his mouth shut. I expected someone else might be at the money pickup besides the guy with the cash—probably the cops. I sure as hell wasn’t going there without a plan.

I wanted to make the drop in a public place, to lessen the chances of being picked up. I had told Thompson how I wanted the money prepared and wrapped. If anyone was going to be observing me picking up the loot, I wanted to make sure I got out of there free. So I prepared a duplicate package to look just like the one that was to be left for me. Then I had to come up with a distraction. I found what I needed in a small specialty shop in the neighborhood—a package of Chinese firecrackers.

I’d seen Thompson on Monday afternoon and the drop was to take place exactly at two o’clock Wednesday afternoon. I wanted a crowded, outdoor type of place. Gulfstream Race Track was made to order, and how appropriate, seeing as how Thompson got so much use out of the real Gulf Stream.

I had told Thompson at what level, what column, and at what side of the track the money should be left. I got to Gulfstream at one-thirty. At one-fifty I started for the drop zone; at one-fifty-nine I lit the sixty-second fuse on the Chinese firecrackers, which were in a brown paper bag, and placed the bag in a trash can about one hundred feet from the drop zone.

I proceeded to walk towards the appropriate column. Sitting on the floor, looking like someone’s left over trash, was a large Kentucky Fried Chicken bag, the kind they put four buckets of chicken in. It was an exact duplicate of the one I had concealed under my jacket. A few seconds later, the firecrackers went off. Without hesitation, I switched bags and kept walking. In the split second it took me to switch bags, every eye in the place was looking in the direction of the firecrackers, and if someone was looking for me to make the pick-up, they’re still there waiting for me to show up.

I walked quickly through the crowd, down the stairs, and out to my car before I allowed myself a peek at the contents of the bag. It was all there, one million dollars! That part of the plan was complete. I had gotten the money and I was still on the streets. I had not been arrested, which was a definite plus.

Now that I had the money, I could disappear and no one but Thompson would be any the wiser. Of course, I would have to worry about the fact that Thompson could have me tracked down and taken care of. I figured he had the resources to find out my real identity. After all, he had nothing else to do while sitting in his cell for the rest of his life but hire people to find me. No, I would follow through with the plan as originally conceived.

It was now Thursday morning and the money was well hidden. I went back to the jail with my paper work. I had no trouble gaining admittance. After all, I was now his attorney of record. When Thompson came into the room, we both smiled. He obviously had been informed as to what transpired the day before. He complimented me by saying how smoothly I had handled myself, and that his courier hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of me. That’s the way I had planned it, I thought, but I said nothing. We had things to do.

I brought with me a specially prepared piece of paper. It looked like an ordinary legal document that could be found in any courthouse in the country, except for one thing. I told Thompson that on the upper right-hand corner was enough arsenic to kill a rat, but not a man. (It wasn’t arsenic, but that was something Thompson didn’t need to know.) I had put it on with an eyedropper, and when it had dried, it left a barely visible stain. I directed him to take it back to his cell, and when alone, rip off that section and swallow it. Then he was to burn the remaining paper and flush the ashes down the toilet. I told him not to notify anyone for at least forty-five minutes after digesting the paper, no matter how bad the pain was. I explained how my man would be waiting for him in the infirmary. There would also be a doctor there and it was the doctor that had to be fooled. I went on to tell him that if he got to the infirmary too soon, they would send him back to his cell, thinking he was faking. His pupils had to be dilated and his pulse quickened to a certain point to assure being transferred to the hospital.

I said, “This is it. If you have any qualms, now’s the time to address them.”

He shook his head before saying, “I want out of here.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

I left the jail and once again walked the two blocks to my car. The first thing I had to do was to get the money and buy myself a new car. After paying cash for a spanking new, though nondescript BMW, I stopped only long enough to purchase a new, larger attaché case and put the remaining $900,000.00 in it. I then drove to the beginning of the Florida Turnpike and stopped at one of the phone booths to call my girl. “Honey, I have some business to attend to. I’ll be out of town for a while. I’ll call you in a day or two.” I then drove straight through to San Francisco. It took me fifty-six hours to get here and check in. Not that I needed to come to this particular city, I just wanted to.

That’s my story. I’m just waiting for the bellhop to bring me the Miami papers from yesterday and today.

There’s a knock on the door. Excuse me a moment.

Ah … here it is, just a small piece in the paper:

“PRISONER KILLS SELF WITH POISON”

Well, I told him it would kill a rat.

 

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V-8 Ford

Another one of my hitching adventures.

V-8 Ford

I have no idea where I was when this story started. All I know is I was north of Atlanta, somewhere in the backwoods of Georgia. I had been hitchhiking in from California, going home to Miami for a visit. I fell asleep in the passenger seat of the car in which I was riding, and the next thing I knew, the driver of the car was shaking me awake. We were stopped, and he said, "Here it is. I turn down that rural road. You wanna’ stay on this here county road. It’ll get you to 301, then its south right into Florida. Good luck.”

I didn’t say the obvious, like, Why the hell didn’t you let me off before we got to the boondocks?  Instead, I thanked him for the ride, got out of the car, and watched him disappear in a cloud of dust down some godforsaken gravel road. So there I was. Where I was, I did not know. All I knew is that it was getting dark—and not a car in sight!

I thought I better scout out a place to unroll my sleeping bag before it got too dark. It looked as though I was going to be stuck there for the night. Just about then, I saw a pair of headlights coming my way—heading in the direction I wanted to go. So I do my part and stick out my thumb. Now if only the driver of the approaching car would do his part and stop. But no, the car sped right on by me. Guess you’re here for the night, Andrew. Might as well get used to it. These were my thoughts as I turned away from the road and went about my search for soft ground upon which to lay my head.

Because I was busy looking for a place to bed down for the night, I did not notice that the car had stopped about three hundred yards down the road. For all you folks out there who have never “hitched,” three hundred yards is not the normal stopping distance. When I finally noticed the car, I became a little apprehensive. I’d been hitchin’ around the country for a few years by then. And it’s been my experience that cars pass you by or stop relatively close to where you are standing. If a car passes you, and then stops further down the road and just sits there, it usually means trouble of some sort.

I’ve been involved in scenarios like this on more than one occasion. In the past, this is the way it played out. The driver was speeding to God knows where and he passed me by thinking, “Fuck him.” But in the back of his mind he’s thinking, “I may be able to make use of that guy.” By the time that thought enters his head, he’s a good piece down the road. But he stops anyway. His nefarious plan had not yet crystallized, so he sits there a moment or two before backing up, which always meant they had decided what they wanted of me. Those kinds of rides never picked me up to help me; it was always about them.

The majority of the time it was some poor closet queen. You must remember, this was 1970 and in the Deep South. Nobody in that neck of the woods, at that time, was out of the closet. And a “stop” like that usually meant a sexual proposition. However, there were times I had to run for my life. So what to do? If the car stopped for the former reason, then I’d get a ride, and the subject slowly broached. And by the time it got around to my polite but firm refusal, I’d be miles down the road. If, on the other hand, the car had stopped for the latter reason, given the locale and the fact no one else was around, then I was in deep shit. These thoughts were coursing through my mind while the car and I maintained a kind of Mexican standoff. We stood there looking at one another, neither of us making the first move.

Finally the brake lights went off and the car started to back up. Now it was my turn. Do I stand my ground, or run into the woods? The car had been stopped for an inordinately long time. But the percentages were with me that the man in the car was just trying to get laid. So with that reasoning, I stayed where I was and waited for the car to reach me. As it got nearer, I noticed that the lid to the trunk was missing, and that it was “army” green in color. I also saw that it was a 1950 V-8 Ford. The V-8 Ford of song and legend.

When the car finally got abreast of me, I was surprised to see that there was a family inside—a man, a woman, and two of the most adorable little girls I’d ever seen—and not the solitary man as I had expected.

I leaned down to the passenger side window and said, “Howdy.”

The man leaned forward, past the woman so I could see his face, and in form of a response said, “Need a lift?”

Now before I can go any further, I must convey something to you kind folks. And in this day and age, it should not be necessary, but it is germane to our story, so it must be stated. The family that had stopped to give me a ride was black. In 1970, they were “black.” Today they would be referred to as African-Americans. And good for them! It’s about time these people got a little fuckin’ respect. Please excuse my language, but I am passionate about the way people of color have been treated, and still are treated, in this supposed “Land of the Free” in which we live.

Okay, back to my story. The man had just asked if I wanted a lift. My answer was an emphatic “Yes!” to which the man replied, “Then get in.” The woman, who I assumed was his wife, moved over towards the driver to make room for me. So there was nothing left for me to do but open the door and get in—after depositing my sleeping bag and suitcase in the back with the children.

Before I even had the door closed, the car lurched forward with a squeal of tires. One thing about those V-8 Fords … they could sure move when they wanted to.

As we sped down that lonely county road, the man said to me, “My name’s Lonnie. This here’s my wife Michelle. And the two in the back are our little girls, Anita and Suzy.”

“Glad to meet you folks. My name’s Andrew.”

For the next few minutes and the next few miles, there was no conversation. It was completely dark now. The Ford’s headlights lit up the road, and the only light inside the Ford was from the speedometer, which illuminated Lonnie’s face. As the car raced down the two-lane, I had a chance to observe my hosts. Lonnie was thin, about thirty, and a rather handsome man. I inferred that because his wife was a knockout. And I didn’t think anyone as pretty as Michelle would hook up with someone not in her class.

After a while, Lonnie asked me, “Where you going?”

“I’m going to Miami. How far are you guys going?”

“Hey man, we’re going to West Palm Beach to stay with my sister. We can give you a ride all the way there.”

I thought that was great news. But, as with everything else in my recent life, there was a catch. And man, what a catch this was. However, let’s progress slowly, and in the order of events as they played out. It’s more fun that way.

We had gone about five miles when Lonnie said, “I’ve got to make a little run first, then we can head south.”

I told him I was cool with that. After all, he was taking me practically to my front door. West Palm Beach is fifty miles from Miami, but when you’re coming in from three thousand miles out, fifty miles is your front door. And when Lonnie said, “run,” I thought he meant a short errand. No, he meant run as in a moonshine run.

We must have been way out in nowheresville because we didn’t see another car, coming or going. After a while, I turned to Lonnie and asked, “Where the hell … oops … sorry Michelle … where are we?” Lonnie answered that we were in Pickens County, halfway between Jasper and Tate. Thanks, Lonnie, now I know just where I am. Wherever the hell Jasper and Tate are.

Finally, Lonnie slowed and said under his breath, “I know it’s here somewhere.” He was looking out of the right side of the windshield. (I’m sure not many of you remember the particulars of the 1950 V-8 Ford, but the windshield was actually two pieces of glass separated by a metal bar in the center.) We crept along at twenty miles per hour for a mile or so until Lonnie exclaimed, “There she is!”

What she was, was a dirt road, and not a very pretty one at that. From the little I could see in the car’s headlights, she consisted of only wheel ruts in the earth. We pulled off the county road and onto the side road (well, it was more like a trail than a road). However, what was to come next would make this mess seem like the brick-paved road leading into the Emerald City of Oz.

After bouncing along that “road” for what seemed like forever, we made a left onto something that no man in his right mind would call a road. The car could make only about five miles per hour. There were tree branches that were windshield high, and holes eight inches deep. I don’t know if the 1950 Fords had lousy springs, or if the ones on this particular Ford were just shot, but every single hole was felt by each of the five occupants of this particular 1950 Ford.

At that pace, it took a while to reach our destination. Through the trees, and a little to our left, I saw three small fires about a hundred yards before us. When Lonnie saw the fires, he sighed and said, “We’re here, folks,” and pulled into a small clearing in the forest that surrounded us.

When the Ford came to a halt, Lonnie said, “Ya’all stay here. I gotta let ’em know about you, Andrew, and explain why I brought the family along.”

As I sat in the front seat next to Michelle, I saw three men emerge from the shadows, each holding a shotgun pointed toward the ground. They converged on Lonnie, and entered into what seemed like heated discussion. After a few minutes, Lonnie came back to the car, leaned his head in the driver’s side window, and said, “It’s cool. I told ‘em I’ve known you for a long time, Andrew, so don’t blow it for me. They don’t exactly trust white boys. Michelle, you and the girls are gonna have to wait here for me while I make the run. Come on, get out. I’ll introduce you guys around.”

I slid out the passenger side door and held it for Michelle. The girls wasted no time in effecting their egress through the back doors. They each availed themselves of one of the two.

With Lonnie herding the girls into our little collective, we moved as one to the three men who stood before the fires, looking somber, and non-welcoming.

Lonnie tried to put a cheerful face on things by lightly saying, “Boys, this here is my family and my friend Andrew. We’re all goin’ down to Florida after I make this run for you. Michelle, Andrew, girls, I want ya’all to meet Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie.”

Michelle said, “I am very pleased to meet you gentlemen.”

The only thing I could think of to say was, “Howdy.”

The boys—Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie—didn’t look too happy having a white boy, a woman, and a couple of kids in their midst. In case you haven’t cottoned to it yet, this was strictly a black moonshine enterprise. I was the only white face in the crowd. Man, how I did get around in those days.

The one called Slim raised his gun, and using it as a pointer, said to me, “You, white boy. Ya see them boxes over there? As long as ya here, ya might as well work. Them boxes go in the trunk of the Ford. Lonnie will help ya.”

Now that my eyes had become adjusted to the night, I could make out that the three fires I had first seen were firing three large vats with copper tubing spiraling down into five-gallon plastic buckets. What I was looking at were three very large stills. They are call stills because they distill corn mash into an almost 200 proof concoction of pure mountain dew.

But first things first. Michelle and the children had to be taken care of. Lonnie told me he’d be with me in a minute, right after he got his family situated. It was then that I noticed there was a small shack back behind the stills, in among the trees. It was there that Lonnie shepherded his flock. When he returned, I was standing by the boxes that Slim said had to be loaded in the trunk of the Ford.

I asked Lonnie, “Will you please tell me what’s going on here?”

That’s when I got the skinny on the whole shebang. It seemed as though I had stepped … no, that’s not right … it seemed as though I had been picked up and driven right into the middle of a moonshine war. And to make matters worse, it was a white versus black moonshine war—in the backwoods of Georgia, circa 1970.

This is how Lonnie explained it to me, as we loaded his car with pure, 190 proof liquor.

The sheriff of Pickens County was a man by the name of Bob Cole, and he received a percentage, or a “cut,” from every illegal activity that took place within his county, from prostitution, to gambling, to moonshinin', even from the sale of marijuana. The drug trade was fine with Bob Cole as long as he got his cut and it was confined to the black sections of the county. Until the drug culture of the 1960s exploded onto America, and the children of the affluent white populace started doing drugs, every police department in the country knew of, and tolerated, drugs being sold in the black areas of their cities, counties, and towns. In those days police departments were made up of all white men. I believe they thought drugs would help keep the black population docile, and besides, Who cared if a few niggers became drug addicts. Not my thinking, I just report the way things were.

Man, I do go off on tangents, don’t I? Back to the story: Sonny Boy, who owned the stills, decided one day to stop paying tribute to Sheriff Cole. Believing he would be safe from the sheriff’s reprisals the further removed from civilization he was, he moved his operation to where we now found ourselves.

Now, Sheriff Cole and his brother-in-law, who was his partner, his enforcer, and his collector, have to make an example of Sonny Boy. To allow his revolt would only encourage others to follow suit. By the way, Cole’s brother-in-law’s name was Ed Williams.

The “shine” that Lonnie and I were loading as he was telling his story was to be the first consignment since Sonny Boy went independent. Word had gotten around that Cole was gunning for Sonny Boy, and anyone foolish enough to be caught with a load of his hooch would be in serious trouble. And I’m not speaking of trouble with The Law. No, this kind of trouble meant your next of kin would be shelling out money to the local funeral home. So Sonny Boy had trouble recruiting a driver for this inaugural run.

This is where Lonnie enters the picture. His V-8 Ford was the fastest car in the county. He had built the engine from the ground up. The car could reach speeds of over 150 miles per hour. There was nothing in the county that could catch her. Or so I was told.

Sonny Boy offered Lonnie a thousand dollars, plus the proceeds of the run, if he’d take the chance of running Sheriff Cole’s blockade. As Cole had a point to make concerning Sonny Boy, Sonny Boy also had a point to make concerning Cole. He would get his shine to his customers in spite of Cole’s best efforts.

Lonnie took the job because he wanted to start a new life for himself and his own down in Florida. Which was good, because even if he could outrun Cole and Williams, they would know his car, and he wouldn’t be safe in Pickens County for a very long time. Those boys, Cole and Williams, did not mess around, as you will shortly see.

As the trunk began to fill, I noticed that there were a lot more boxes than there was trunk space. I mentioned the discrepancy to Lonnie, who told me not to worry about it, just keep stacking until the boxes were even with the roof of the car. That explained the missing trunk lid. After we had everything stacked roof high, we filled the floor in the back (V-8 Fords had plenty of legroom) and the seat right up to the headliner. Then we put the last two cases in the front seat.

Just then the one known as Peetie walked up to us carrying a rope. He handed it to Lonnie without a word, turned, and walked away. Lonnie took the rope and tied one end to the rear right door handle. Then he brought it around the opposite door and looped it through the handle, and then back again to the other door. He did this a few more times, and with each pass, the boxes in the trunk became more secure. When he had tied off the end of the rope, he went back to inspect the boxes. He tried to shake them loose, but to no avail. He turned to me with a big smile and said, “That oughta hold ’em.” He continued, “Okay, you can stay with Michelle and the girls while I’m gone.”

My retort was, “Hold on just one cotton pickin’ minute. If you think I’m gonna sit with the women and children when I have the chance to go on a moonshine run in the middle of a moonshine war, then you’re crazier than I am.”

I had just finished speaking when Sonny Boy and Slim walked up. Sonny Boy said to Lonnie, “Ya ready to go?”

Lonnie replied, “Sure am, but this crazy white boy wants to go along.”

Sonny Boy said nothing right off, he just looked me over. At length, he said, “Why ya wanna go?”

“Because when I’m a grandfather, I want to tell the story to my grandkids of the time I went on a moonshine run.”

“This ain’t no game, boy. This here is serious business.”

“I know that, Mr. Sonny Boy. Lonnie explained things to me. But Lonnie’s my friend; I may be of some help. Hell, he can’t even see out the back window. I can spot for him, you know, tell him if anyone is coming up fast behind. You never know when two men might be better than one.”

“You ain’t no man, boy, but ya got spunk. Okay … you can go.”

Lonnie said, “If it’s cool with you, Sonny Boy, then I’d love to have him along. Let me go tell Michelle I’m leaving. I’ll be right back.” As Lonnie walked to the shack, the three of us—Sonny Boy, Slim, and I—stood there staring at one another. I felt uncomfortable with them just standing there staring at me. So I said something only a young kid who was out to prove his worth would say. “You know if I had one of those guns, it might prove useful if we run into trouble.” Both men still had their shotguns tucked under their arms and pointed toward the ground.

Again, Sonny Boy looked me over as though he’d never seen a twenty-year-old white male before. He then turned to Slim and said, “Give him your gun.” Slim made no movement to comply with Sonny Boy’s order. After a few seconds, Sonny Boy said to Slim, “Look, he don’t talk like us, he ain’t from ’round here. He ain’t one of Cole’s stooges. He might just help git this load through. I got a feelin’. And Slim, ya know my feelin's ain’t never wrong. Give him the gun.”

It took a couple of seconds, but Slim slowly raised his gun, and though it wasn’t pointed directly at me, it was pointed in my general direction. And he spoke for the second time that night, “If’n anything goes wrong, I’ll know who to come after.” With that cheery thought, he turned the gun around and handed it to me butt first.

Sonny Boy asked me, “You ever fire a shotgun before? You look kinda city to me.”

“Nope, never have. I reckon I just pull the triggers.”

“Ya might want to shoot just one barrel at a time so you don’t shoot ya load all at once. And it might be easier if’n you pull the hammers back first.”

So that was it. I was now officially riding shotgun for the Sonny Boy Express.

When Lonnie got back, he did a double take at me holding the gun, but said only, “Mount up, we’re ridin.”

As we got in the car, I had to arrange the two cases in the front seat so I could get my butt in there too. Lonnie saw me fighting with the cases while holding the shotgun and jumped out of the car. He walked around the front to the passenger side where I was still doing battle with the cases. He tapped me on the shoulder, and when I straightened up and turned to him, he politely, but very firmly, took the gun from my right hand.

“This, until it’s needed, if it’s needed, will lie on the floor. Please do not touch it unless I ask you to. I’ve got enough problems with Cole and Williams. I don’t need you blowing my head off because we went over a bump in the road.” He laid the gun on the floor of the V-8 Ford, the business end facing me—of course.

All that took place with Sonny Boy and Slim watching. They said nothing, but I could tell they were mentally shaking their heads. Now that the gun and the cases were taken care of, Lonnie and I got into the car, and he turned her around so that we were facing the direction from which we had come not so long ago. To me it seemed a lifetime ago.

As we started down that non-road road which we came in on, I said to Lonnie, “How the hell are you going to get your booze out of here without breaking every damn bottle?”

“Well, Andrew, first of all, they’re in jars, fruit jars, not bottles. And we came in at five miles per hour, but we’re going out at two miles an hour. And don’t you worry. I can’t afford to lose even one jar. Right now, it’s my shine, and I get $15.00 for every jar I deliver intact.” Made sense to me, so I just sat back and enjoyed the tortuously slow pace we were making.

Eventually we got to the county road, and were my kidneys glad. Once on the smooth surface, Lonnie showed me what his V-8 Ford could do. Within a very short time, we were cruising down that road at a hundred and twenty miles per hour. I couldn’t see the speedometer, so as we accelerated, I had to keep asking Lonnie how fast we were going. I think my constant asking annoyed him a bit, but he was so proud of that car he put up with it, and told me every time I asked.

Now, my dear friends, we come to the crux of the story, the place where we got to meet up with Ed Williams and friends. In my hitchin’ career, I’ve been in a lot of scrapes, but I must admit, this was one of the better ones.

We stayed on the back roads as much as possible. But then we pulled onto what seemed to me to be a main thoroughfare. So I said to Lonnie, “Is this cool? Maybe someone will spot us on this road.”

“It can’t be helped. We’ve got to cross the swamp up ahead. It’s this road, or a twenty-mile detour down south. And I’m itchin’ to get this over with and get my ass to Florida.” Well, as it turned out, the detour would have saved us time after all.

We’re haulin’ ass across this swamp. I mean, it was pitch dark, but you still knew there was water on both sides of you, just from the spread of the headlights out to the sides of the road.

Then we saw it, a car across the road up ahead. Lonnie and I saw it at the same time. I said nothing. Lonnie said “Shit!” There was no way we could go around it, so Lonnie said, “Hold on, I’m turning her around.” Just then, and I don’t know why, I stuck my head out the window and looked back, and I saw headlights coming up fast. I told this to Lonnie and he said the bastard must have been tailin’ us with his lights out, using our taillights to light the way for him.

The obvious question was, What do we do now? And you want to know something? That’s the very question I put to Lonnie. His answer was not very reassuring. “I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear and see what happens.” He saw that I was reaching for the shotgun and added, “No, not now, maybe later.” As he said that, he brought the V-8 Ford to a halt about twenty feet from the car blocking the road.

Lonnie and I sat in the Ford, while two men came out of the darkness to be illuminated by the Ford’s headlights. They both carried shotguns. The bigger of the two ambled over to Lonnie’s side of the car. The other one was going to be my date. Before they reached us, I asked Lonnie, “Are these the bad guys you told me about?”

“Yes, I recognize Ed Williams; he’s the big one.”

“Alright, Lonnie boy, I’m getting an idea. Don’t pay any attention to anything I may say. Just keep your eyes open.” Who said that? I’ll be goddamn … it was my twenty-year-old self that said that!

Before the men could reach us, I opened my door and sprung out of the car. They both raised their guns at this unexpected motion, but before they could think to fire, I said, “Thank you, thank you! That crazy nigger almost got me killed. He was goin’ over a hundred miles an hour. I asked him to slow down but he wouldn’t. I was just hitchhiking and the son-of-a-bitch picked me and wouldn’t let me out.”

I guess because of my age, and the fact that I was white, was the reason I didn’t get my head blown off, coupled with the fact that I had called Lonnie a “crazy nigger.” I hate that word. I don’t even like using it now, and believe me, if it wasn’t for what I perceived as a matter of life or death, I would not have used it that night.

As I was going through my little act, the car that was following us pulled up behind the Ford. Only it wasn’t a car. It was a flatbed truck with wooden slats on the side, but not the back. Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time. The only thing I knew at the time was that the headlights shining from behind the Ford gave more emphasis to my performance.

The man closest to me lowered his gun a bit, not by much, but just enough to show he had bought my act. The other man, after hesitating to review my dissimilation, continued on to his objective, which was Lonnie. Then a third man came out from behind the Ford. He was the one who had been driving the truck.

The big man, who was Williams, said before he reached the driver’s side door, “Keep an eye on the kid until we know what’s goin’ on. Put him in front of the car, and keep him in the light.” I had ears, I heard what he said, so without being told, I walked over to the hood of the Ford and leaned my butt against it, facing out into the darkness.

When Williams got to the left-hand door of the Ford, he peered in and, upon seeing Lonnie, said, “Okay, boy, outta the car.”

In no time at all, both Lonnie and I were ensconced between the headlights of the 1950 V-8 Ford.

Once Lonnie was next to me, the three men congregated in front of us. Williams was obviously in charge, so he spoke for his little aggregation. “What have we got here? An integrated, illegal moonshinin’ outfit?”

That was my cue to continue with my Oscar-winning performance. (I’m not putting the TM after the word Oscar. If the Academy of Motion Pictures, or whatever the fuck they’re called, wants to sue me, please go right ahead. My next story is about those assholes.)

As I said earlier, it’s hard to keep me on track. Let me try that again.

Williams alluded to an integrated moonshine ring. And as I said, that was my cue. So here’s what went down:

“Sir, you got this all wrong. I was just trying to get home when this here nigger picked me up. Hell, I’d ride with the devil hisself if it would git me back to my mama. She’s sickly ya know.” At that age, I could play the mother card quite effectively. It worked every time, except in one hellhole of a town in Louisiana, though that’s another story.

Man, I tried, but Williams was a hard audience to crack. He only said, “Hold on, boy, we’ll git to you in a minute. Right now I got me some questions for the nigger here.”

He asked his questions without, I might add, waiting for a reply. “What’s in the boxes, boy? Why did you feel it necessary to kidnap a white boy? You got anything to say for yourself?” He might have gone on in that vein if the guy from the truck didn’t say, “Hey, Ed, let’s git the shit transferred to the truck, then we can have us some fun with the nigger.” Ed thought that was a great idea and said to Lonnie, “Git loading your illegal liquor onto Jim’s truck.” Oh, so that was the asshole’s name … Jim.

But ol’ Ed Williams wasn’t forgetting Yours Truly, no way José. “You, boy, you help the nigger. You two hand them boxes up to Jim. Jim, you git up on the bed and arrange ’em so they don’t fall over. Don’t stack ’em. Keep ’em all flat on the bed.”

As Jim climbed up onto the truck to await our deliveries, and I stood next to Lonnie as he untied the rope, he whispered to me, “Man, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were King Cracker.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

Before we were joined by the two original assholes, Ed and What’s-His-Name, I had just enough time to tell Lonnie, “I’m going for the gun first chance I get.”

I noticed that Jim didn’t have a weapon, and if the other two kept close together, as they had been, I might be able to pull something off. They might, after the booze was loaded, relax their watch over me. I knew that no way in hell was Lonnie going to get a chance at the gun.

We loaded the moonshine onto a vehicle for the second time that night, all the while under the watchful eyes of Ed Williams and company. When we had finished, we were told to go back to the front of the Ford and get between the headlights. It was now time to assert myself. I rehearsed my lines, and then went upon the stage and spoke so those in the cheap seats could hear me.

I addressed myself to Williams, “Sir, if you’ll just loan me your gun for a minute, I’d be happy to blow this here nigger’s brains out all over his car.”

“Calm down, boy, we don’t do things like that hereabouts. No, we have our own way of doin’ things. When a nigger gits uppity like this one here, we use a rope. We ain’t had a decent lynchin’ in I don’t know how long. But we sure as hell gonna have us one tonight.”

Okay, from his demeanor towards me and his speech, it looked like I was winning Williams over. So I asked an obvious question. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see no trees hereabout, how are we (notice how it has now become we) gonna lynch the nigger without no trees?”

“We’re gonna take him to my brother-in-law. He’ll want in on the fun.”

Quite abruptly, he said, “Time to go. Hey, boy, can you drive the nigger’s car? You follow us. You’ll be between the truck and us. So you cain’t pull nothin’. And if you try, we’ll have us a double lynchin’. We’ve lynched nigger-lovin’ whites before.”

“Yes sir. And I’d like to be the one that puts the rope around his goddamn neck.”

“Okay, boy, just stay with us and maybe you can.” Then Williams turned to Lonnie and said, “Come on, boy, it’s time to meet Sheriff Cole … and your maker.”

At that instant, the three assholes were surrounding Lonnie, and the sons-of-bitches were really enjoying themselves. I was momentarily forgotten. I’d been waiting an eternity for this moment. I ran around to the driver’s side door, which was already opened, leaned down, and grabbed the stock of the shotgun. I had it out before anyone, including myself, knew what was happening. I yelled, “Lonnie, move.” I think he was expecting something because he was out of the line of fire before the others even lifted their heads to see what was going on. I trained the shotgun on all three of ’em. Their guns were pointed earthward; hence, they were no good whatsoever in a situation like this.

I said, “Gentlemen, if anyone is going to meet his maker tonight, it’s gonna be you three assholes. So, how do we play it? You want to die now, or do you want to lay your guns on the ground and live for a few more minutes?”

If nothing else, you can say definitively that racists are the biggest bunch of cowards on the planet. The two with the guns meekly put them on the ground. And I could see that all three were shaking down to their BVDs. I told them to move back, and when they had gone far enough so as not to cause any mischief, I asked Lonnie to pick up their guns. What a waste of breath. Before I had finished speaking, Lonnie was beside me, holding a shotgun on our three friends.

So now that I’m the hero and saved the day, I didn’t know what to do next. I turned to Lonnie and asked, “What now?”

He says, not to me, but to the three assholes, “Gents, if all of you can fit into the trunk of that car that is blocking the road, you’ll live through the night. Anyone not able to fit in, we’ll just have to shoot.” He then addressed Williams. “Where are the keys?”

“Fuck you, nigger.”

I think that was the wrong thing to say to Lonnie at that particular moment because he discharged a round of buckshot into Williams’ leg. The son-of-a-bitch crumpled to the ground with a yelp of pain that I am sure was heard in Jasper, wherever the hell Jasper is.

Lonnie then asked the other asshole that was not Jim where the keys were, and you know what? He received no smart mouth in return. He was told that they were in the ignition. Lonnie told me to go fetch them and open the trunk. When the trunk was opened, Lonnie told Jim and asshole number two to pick up the big piece of shit that called himself Ed Williams and put him in the trunk. When they had done that, Lonnie said, “Now you two climb in after him, and remember anyone not in the trunk will find himself in the swamp … and dead.” Somehow they managed to fit themselves in, though I don’t think they were very comfortable.

As soon as the lid was shut and locked, Lonnie grabbed the keys and got into the car. He started it and backed it off the road. After throwing the keys as far out into the shallow water of the swamp as possible, he asked me “Can you drive the truck? I’ve got a little brake problem, so I’ll have to drive the Ford.”

“Yeah sure, but where are we going?”

“The drop is just a couple of miles from here. We’ll give ’em the truck and the liquor. We won’t have to wait around for no unloadin’. We’ll just get our money and vamoose.”

So that’s my story. We dropped off the booze, Lonnie collected his money, and we hightailed it back to pick up Michelle and the girls. When we left, we had one shotgun, but when we returned to the clearing in the woods where the stills were located, we had three.

As we drove up, Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie came out to meet us. Before any questions could be asked, I got out of the Ford carrying the three guns and walked up to my old buddy, Slim. I gave him all three, and said, “I don’t remember which one is yours.” Then I went back to the Ford to await Lonnie and company. The look on Slim’s face was worth everything I had gone through that night.

Of course, we couldn’t get out of there until Lonnie gave the boys the highlights of the evening. When he had finished, Slim walked over to the car and stuck out his hand saying, “White boy, you is the first white person I’ve ever stuck my hand out to and meant it.”

Well, with a preamble like that, I had to shake hands with the man. In fact, I was glad to do so.

Just then, Sonny Boy walked up and said, “Did you remember to pull the hammers back?”

“No, sorry. I forgot.”

“That’s alright, son, you done good, thanks.” Without another word, he and Slim walked back to tend the fires, as they had been when we drove up.

Lonnie came back with his brood and herded them into the car. And off we went—Florida bound.

The only other thing of interest is that when we got to West Palm Beach, rather than let me off on the highway, Lonnie asked me to stay with them until we got to his sister’s house. He said he would see to it that I got back to the highway alright.

When we got there, and after I said good bye to Michelle and the girls, Lonnie turned to me and said, “I want you to have this car. The papers are in the glove box.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve got no more use for her. You saved my bacon back there and no way around it, you’re takin’ her or you’re walkin’ the five miles back to the highway. There’s just one thing, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but every time I put on the brakes, I have to pull the pedal back up with this here rope. He then showed me something I had missed entirely. Lonnie demonstrated the mechanism for me. He depressed the brake pedal and then released it. It did not rise as brake pedals are wont to do. He had to pull it back in place with the rope. He had become so proficient at applying the brakes, and then pulling the brake pedal back into place, I hadn’t notice a thing the whole trip from Georgia.

I’m getting tired, so the short version is that I humbly accepted Lonnie’s gift.

One last point of interest:

A few weeks later, I found myself on I-95 in Miami, and traffic was stop and go. Well, I stopped, but couldn’t get the brake pedal up right away. I fumbled with the rope, but because I didn’t move the Ford along fast enough, a semi-trailer plowed right into me. He hit me hard enough to give me whiplash to my neck for a couple of weeks. But you want to know what damage my V-8 Ford suffered after being hit by an eighteen-wheeler? None! That’s what. Not a dent! They just don’t make cars like the old V-8 Fords anymore.

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Posted on Short Story

Everything's Jake

Everything’s Jake

 It was early in the morning when the man rode into town from the east, the sun at his back, his long shadow before him. The street was deserted except for an old mongrel dog sniffing its way home after a long night’s prowl.

He proceeded on the main thoroughfare—the town’s only thoroughfare—until he came abreast of the Blue Moon Café with its “WE NEVER CLOSE” sign hanging from the ramada. Spurring his horse over to the hitching post outside the café, he dismounted and entered the establishment.

At that time in the morning, the chairs were on the tables, and the only occupants were a boy sweeping the floor and a disheveled, overweight man behind the bar wiping a glass with a dirty rag. The barkeep watched the stranger approach.

“How ’bout some whiskey?” said the stranger.

When the barman was slow in responding, the man grabbed his collar, pulled him down until he was bent over the bar and their eyes were staring into each other’s.

“I said whiskey,” growled the stranger.

“Yes sir, right away,” was the barkeep’s quick response.

When released, with a shaking hand, he placed the glass he had been wiping on the bar, grabbed a bottle from beneath the counter, and poured a liberal amount of an amber liquid into it.

As he started to re-cork the bottle, he was told to leave it.

“Yes sir.”

Turning his back to the bar and placing his elbows thereon, he called to the youth doing the sweeping.

“Hey you, boy, come over here.”

Placing his broom against the nearest table, the boy did as he was bid.

“You got a name, son?”

“Yes sir. It’s Billy.”

“Well, Billy, do you know a man by the name of Jake Tapper?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes sir.”

Reaching into his vest pocket, the man withdrew a silver dollar and flicked it in the boy’s direction. “You go tell Jake that Mac’s in town.”

Jake lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was much too early to be awake, but since she left him, he found it hard to sleep. It had been a heady eight months. He had never loved a woman as he had loved Jeanie. Sure, it was taking a chance messing with Mac Conway’s woman, but it had been worth it. Now that she had run off with that piano player from the Blue Moon, he thought he’d just stop running from Mac. Might as well get it over with, thought Jake.

Then there was a knock at his door. “Yes, who is it?”

“It’s me, Mister Tapper. Billy Doyle.”

“Whatcha want, Billy?”

“A man down to the Blue Moon told me to tell you that Mac is in town. I think he wants to talk to you.”

“Alright, Billy. You tell him I’ll be right there.”

Jake packed his few belongings and left the room. Instead of going to the Blue Moon, he went to the livery stable and saddled his horse. Then he mounted and headed out of town as fast as the beast could carry him.

It is one thing to think brave thoughts in the seclusion of your room, but it’s another thing to face Mac Conway in a saloon. Hell, it ain’t healthy to face off with Mac anywhere. Now that Jeanie’s gone, there’s no reason to git myself killed.

The next day Mac caught up with Jake, and then went looking for Jeanie.

Part Two

Jeanie

It’s two hours before dawn and moonlight shafts in through the window. In a darkened corner, in the shadows, sits a woman. She has been sitting there for hours. She looks toward the bed. Lying on the bed is a man, a big man. The woman is crying, the man is snoring, and they are waiting. The man does not know that he is waiting, but he is.

What a mess I’ve made of things, thinks the woman. She thinks back five years to when she was just a seventeen year-old girl in Two Mule, Kansas. Back then her favorite saying was, “This may be Two Mule, but it’s a one-horse town as far as I’m concerned.”

Then the big man came to town; he was handsome in a rugged sort of way. Jeanie, that is the woman’s name, took one look at him and knew that he was her ticket to freedom. At that thought Jeanie has to laugh. Freedom! I haven’t had a free day since we left. But she did not know what was in store for her then. At the time, all she wanted was to get away, and Mac was only too happy to oblige her.

He told her he would take her to Chicago, maybe even New York. But when they left, in the middle of the night, they headed west. He told her he needed a grubstake and was going to do a little panning for gold. But Mac did his panning with a knife.

They would wander into a gold camp, set up his tent, and Mac would pretend to pan during the day, always out of sight of the others. What he did was drink and sleep. However, at night as the men sat around the fire, he would ascertain the man with the biggest poke, as he listened to their talk.

After two or three days, when he had picked out his target, he would creep into the man’s tent as he slept, slit his throat, and take his dust. Then he and Jeanie would leave. When you traveled with Mac Conway, you were always leaving places in the middle of the night. And tonight, thought Jeanie, as she sat in her corner, will be no different. Mac, you’ll be leaving in the night, but not with me. Not this time.

It wasn’t long before Jeanie cottoned to what Mac was doing. That didn’t bother her too much, but what stuck in her craw was the fact that Mac had no intention of taking her to Chicago or anywhere else but two-bit tank towns. That’s when she first ran away from him.

As he lay passed out, drunk, she lifted his purse and what dust she could find. Her big mistake—if you don’t count her not killing him outright—was leaving his horse.

He had caught up with her pretty fast and gave her a good beating to teach her not to do anything like that again. He said, as he beat her, “You belong to me and if you ever leave me again, I’ll kill ya!” It was then that Jeanie knew she would need the help of a man if she was going to escape Mac.

It was fourteen months before she found the right man; at least he seemed right at the time. Jake was full of talk of all the places he’d been. He said he was passing through town on his way to California where he was going to buy a ranch and raise cattle.

Once she had Jake picked out, she worked on him when Mac wasn’t around.

“You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then you’re the man for me. We can be one hundred miles gone before he even misses me. And don’t worry; he’ll be glad to be quit of me.”

However, after they left and word got around that Mac was looking for them, Jake started to go to pieces. He was always looking over his shoulder and saying things like, “How far back you reckon Mac is?” Or, “I don’t think we’d better stay here more than a day. Mac could be close by.” It was enough to drive me crazy, thought Jeanie as she sat in her chair, in the corner, in the dark.

After eight months of Jake’s jumping at every bump in the night and loud noise during the day, she started to play the piano player, no pun intended. Well … perhaps some pun intended.

The beautiful thing about Señor Piano Player was that he didn’t know of Mac. But Mac soon found out about him. When Mac finally caught up with her and the piano player, he didn’t beat her, he did not kill her, he simply told her she was responsible for the deaths of two men. He took great joy in telling her how Jake Tapper had died. So, two men were dead. If she was to get away from Mac, she would have to take care of things herself.

Now it was a month later and they were in a new town. Mac came in every night roaring drunk. Some nights he would ravage her; other nights he’d just pass out. That is what gave her the idea.

She could have lifted his gun out of the holster as he slept. It was always hanging from the bedpost at night. Then she could have pulled back the hammer, placed the barrel in his ear, and squeezed the trigger. But, that is not a woman’s way. And besides, she would most likely be hung for murder if she did it that way.

That afternoon, she went to McGuire’s Emporium and bought a bottle of laudanum, which is also known as tincture of opium. Before she left, she asked Mr. McGuire how much was safe to take.

“One tablespoon is alright, two if you are in a lot of pain.”

“How much is dangerous?”

“It depends on body weight.”

“What would happen if I drank half the bottle?”

“You would go to sleep and die.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGuire.”

“Good day, Jeanie. Say hello to Mac for me.”

Like everyone else in town, McGuire was fearful of Mac Conway.

On the way upstairs, after she returned home, Jeanie bought a bottle of Mac’s favorite whiskey.

When she was alone in the confines of her room, she poured most of the contents of the whiskey bottle into the wash basin. Then she uncorked the laudanum and poured all of it into the bottle. Laudanum has a bitter taste. Jeanie was hoping Mac’s inebriation and the whiskey would mask the taste. In this, she was right.

That night, Mac slammed opened the door when he returned, he was drunk as usual. As he reached for her, she said, “Hello, lover. Let’s have a drink first.”

Jeanie knew that Mac never declined an invitation for libation. She went to the table and poured a portion of the doctored liquid into a glass. Mac, as she knew he would, grabbed the bottle from her and he took a healthy swallow. Well, it would have been a healthy swallow if not for the laudanum.

She was able to keep away from him until the bottle was empty, then she guided him to the bed where he sat for a moment, head hung down, before he fell backwards and passed out.

That was hours ago. Now she sat and waited, waited for the son-of-a-bitch to die. Just before sunrise, the snoring stopped. She hesitated for only a moment before going over to the bed. She had to know.

Yes, he was dead.

Before leaving the room, she went through his pockets and took anything of value. Then she went out and met the rising sun, and walked into a new life.

The End

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Posted on Short Story

Three Steps

I’m three steps from meeting my maker. Three more steps to the noose. I am ready to die; I reckon I deserve to die. I have killed before, but never for such a frivolous reason as brings me to these last three steps.

The whole mess started down El Paso way when I walked into that little cantina. It was a bucket of blood, a real dive. But I had a thirst and it was the first saloon I saw as I rode into town. Once inside, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. When I could see again, I saw a bar against the far wall. Two men were leaning against it, staring into their drinks. A few tables were scattered around the room—all empty. It was mid-day, so that was no surprise.

I made my way to the bar and put my foot on the brass rail. The barman was a little slow in coming my way. I had just rode twenty-five miles and the dust was thick in my throat. I had no patience for a slow-movin’ barkeep. When he was opposite me, I grabbed his shirt and pulled his face to mine. Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “Give me your finest rotgut and if you dilly-dally, I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” As I said it, I drew my .44 from its leather and pointed the barrel at his right leg. His eyes widened and he reached under the bar and came up with an almost full bottle of some good stuff. “Here, mister, it’s on the house,” he stuttered.

With that taken care of, I picked up the bottle and, leaving the glass where it was, took a good pull. I had ridden my horse almost to death. I had to move fast, they were on my trail. I mean the posse. Yes, I had killed two men, but they were trying to kill me. I finally lost the posse in the badlands. Now I’m only a few miles from Mexico and freedom. But as it turned out, I might as well have been a million miles from the border.

I don’t know what she was doing coming into that hellhole of a bar, but when I saw her, my plans changed. She pushed through the swing doors as though she owned the place. And, in a way, she did. She was tall and blonde. Her figure had more curves than a coiled rattler. Her hair was up—her smile could kill. Her eyes were gray and they looked my way.

She strolled right up to me and in a voice that would have made strong men weep, she said, “Ain’t you the big one.”

Without a word, I took the empty glass from the bar and poured some of the amber liquid into it. She took the proffered glass and said, “My name is Rose and I like a man that will buy a girl a drink.”

When we had worked the bottle down to half empty, she told me to grab it and took me by the hand. She led me to the stairs and we ascended to the second floor, to a door at the far end of the hall. “This is where I call home,” she purred. By now I had forgotten about the twenty-five dust-coated miles, the posse, the killings—everything.

Once in the room with the door locked, she pointed to a table and said, “You’ll find some glasses over there. Pour us a shot.” I found the glasses, blew the dust out of ’em, and did as I was told. When I turned back around, she was sitting on the bed. Patting the mattress, she beckoned softly. “Come and sit by me.”

Well, partners, that was all she wrote. For the next three days, we barely left that room. We had our hooch and food sent up. I had never known a woman like her. I’d mostly only been with whores, but she was no whore. She told me that she loved me. We spent three days exploring every inch of each other’s bodies, and I fell in love for the first time in my life.

It was on the morning of the fourth day that my head started to clear. We were lying in bed. I was on my back and she was propped up on one elbow running her finger down my chest when she said she wanted to go to Mexico with me. I told her that was fine by me, but there was no rush. That’s when she got a funny look on her face and exclaimed, “No, we have to leave today!” Before I could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. I got out of bed and slipped on my pants. I knew who it was; it was the little Mex boy who had been bringing us our food and booze. I usually took the tray at the door and handed him a dollar. But this time was different. He beckoned me out into the hall and asked that I shut the door. When it was closed behind me, he whispered, “Señor, you have been good to me, so I must tell you that you are in great danger.”

I took the tray from his hands and said, “Don’t worry, son. This is the kind of danger I like,” and winked at him.

I started to turn, but he grabbed my arm. “You do not understand. She belongs to another man, a bad man. She has done this before and three men have died. Her man will be back tomorrow, so today she will ask you to leave and take her with you. If you are here tomorrow, José will kill you.”

I put the tray on the floor and asked the boy to tell me all that he knew. He told me people were making bets with each other if I’d get away before José got back or if I’d be planted up on the hill with the other three. It seemed Rose, my great love, was using me to get away from José. In this country, a woman can’t travel alone. And besides, as the boy told me, José leaves her with no money when he goes away.

The news kinda punched me in the gut. I gave the boy a five-dollar gold piece and thanked him. Picking up the tray, I entered the room with a smile on my face.

“Where have you been? I missed you, big boy.”

Still smiling, I placed the tray on the bed. “You chow down. I’m gonna have me a drink.”

I had me some thinking to do.

As I sat in the chair and watched her eat, I weighed my options. We could leave together and avoid this man José, or I could leave alone. Or, we could stay and I could have it out with José. The problem was I didn’t know if she was worth it. She had played me. If I took her with me, would she ditch me once we were in Mexico?

I was still thinking on those thoughts when she broke my reverie by saying, “I want to be out of here by noon. I’m going to take a bath; you pack and then settle our bill. I’ll meet you at the livery stable.” Still smiling, I answered, “I’ll see you at the livery.” She gathered up some clothes, got herself dressed, and left to take her bath.

When she had gone, I sat there in thought and added another option to the other three. I could just kill the lying bitch and be done with her. What to do? What to do?

I put on my shirt and boots, strapped on my .45, and went downstairs still undecided. By the time I reached the livery, I had decided that I’d leave without her. She was a fine-looking woman and the sex was good, but I had enough trouble in my life without no crazy man coming after me. I saddled my pinto and started down the street at a slow pace. As I passed the saloon, Rose pushed through the swing doors and saw me. She dropped her bags and ran up, grabbed ahold of the saddle horn, and walked alongside. Looking up at me, she implored, “Where you going? Wait! I’ll get my horse.”

“I’m sorry. It was nice, but this here is where we go down our separate trails.”

She wouldn’t let go, so I picked up the pace a mite. She still hung on. Then I saw her look down the street and the look on her face said it all. She let go and hightailed it back to the saloon.

I didn’t have to look, but I did. Astride a sorrel rode a big man, a big, mean-looking man. It had to be José. As we came abreast of each other, he grabbed the reins of my horse. There we stood, eye to eye, neither one of us speaking. Finally he said in a very deep voice, “Whatcha doin’ with my woman?”

“Nothing, just tryin’ to get outta town,” I answered.

I saw it in his eyes; he was going to draw on me. I may be slow when it comes to women, but I’m fast when it comes to gun play. I had a bullet through his forehead before he cleared leather. That was my mistake, that and taking up with Rose. I should have let him draw first. The whole thing was seen by the town marshal and I was quickly arrested. I thought for a moment of killing the marshal before he arrested me, but I never did kill no man that was not trying to kill me.

For three days, I knew of love. In three steps, I die.

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