Posted on Short Story

Dead

Dead

I’ve been dead for nine hours and thirty-seven minutes.

Nine hours and thirty-eight minutes ago, I had my whole life before me.

Allow me to start at the beginning.

I was standing outside my trailer. It was shortly after 8:00 am when a police car drove onto my property. I live in far western Palm Beach County; my nearest neighbor lives two miles away. I moved out here because I wanted to be left alone. So, the last thing I wanted, or needed, are police-type hassles. Then I noticed something strange. Well, maybe not strange, but out of whack, not quite right. It wasn’t a County car; it was from a small municipality, Lake Worth. Now, only County cops have jurisdiction where I lived, so right away I smelled a rat. My first thought was, This can’t be good, and I was right; it was bad, about as bad as it can get, and it only got worse with each new development.

The officer got out of the car and approached me. When he got to within a few feet of where I was standing, he said, “You Billy Doyle?” I told him yes indeed, that was my name and asked what I could do to help him. He asked me if I knew a Randy McClinton. With that statement, I breathed a sigh of relief; he was looking for someone, it had nothing to do with me. I told him the name was not familiar to me. Then any sense that this was not about me evaporated when he said, “It should be. You assaulted him three nights ago.”

Finally, it dawned on me. He must be talking about that asshole who tried to pick a fight with me in Brownie’s. Brownie’s is a local bar I stopped into on occasion. I had been there on the night in question when some guy that I’ve never seen before, who doesn’t like the look of my face, or the cut of my jib, or maybe he was just in the mood for a fight, came up to me and said, “Why don’t you get your stinking ass out of here?”

I could tell that he was three sheets to the wind, so I told him I would be happy to leave and started for the door. But he scrambled to get between me and the exit, effectively blocking my retreat. By this time, I had had enough. I was willing to leave peacefully, but this guy just wouldn’t have any of it. And I just knew that until I had satisfied his desire for blood, there would be no peace. But I didn’t intend to get myself battered and scraped just for his amusement. So, we’re there, toe to toe, face to face, and I turned to the barmaid and said, “How about another round, darlin’?” With that, my would-be opponent turns his head to see to whom I am speaking. And with that, I lay a haymaker right onto his button. The fool goes down and lays there spread-eagled. I had to be careful to step over him, and not on him, as I made my way out the door.

As I came out of my reverie, I thought, Brownie’s isn’t in Lake Worth, so what’s with the cop? Then another thing struck me … how did this guy find me? As far as I knew, no one at Brownie’s knew my name, certainly not my last name. So I asked, “How did you know it was me, and how did you find me?”

“Identifying you was easy. You showed your business card to the barmaid awhile back, and she remembered your name. She told me it’s her business to remember names because when she calls a customer by name, it increases her tips. And as to finding you, well, that was easy. We have a whole computer system down at headquarters for finding assholes like you.”

By now, my Irish wise-ass was straining to be let loose. But, I held it in check; after all, it wanted to mix it up with a cop. So I respectfully asked, “First of all, what’s it to you?”

“I’ll tell you what it has to do with me; the man you attacked is my baby brother.”

So now I know two things; this is personal and the whole family is made up of assholes.

Thinking I might win a few points by putting him on the defensive, I said, “I thought police computers could not be used for personal matters.”

He forcibly disabused me of any such notion by saying, “Listen, you little fuck; we cops can do anything we please. If I wanted to put a bullet in your ugly head right now, there’s nothing you could do about it. All I’d have to do is walk into your kitchen, grab me a knife, and throw it down next to your dead body. I would simply claim you attacked me when I came out here to apologize for my brother’s behavior. When I’m in uniform and on the streets, I am God. The only thing you have to worry about is how I’m going to even things up for my brother.”

I had time to take stock of the man who stood before me as he was making himself into a god. He was about forty-five, overweight, his belly hung over his belt, and his hair was jet black; an obvious dye job. He had short, stubby, sausage fingers and a double chin, a most unattractive individual. I could also smell the cheap cologne he wore from ten feet away.

As he was wrapping up the deification of himself, my dog Mickey ran into the yard. That was why I was outside when the avenging angel pulled up. Every morning, as is our custom, I let Mickey out to run, sniff, and pretend to hunt in the woods surrounding my trailer. When he appeared, I started for the front door to open it and let him in. I figured there was enough taking place already without throwing a dog into the mix. After opening the door, I turned to call Mickey, and saw what turned out to be my death … but at the time, I thought it was Mickey’s.

I saw a smile cross that fat, evil face as he looked at my dog, who by now had found something new to sniff … the police car. I started to call Mickey in, but had to wait a moment. He had his leg lifted and was peeing on the left rear tire of the police car. I thought, Good boy.

As I waited for Mickey to finish his business, I saw Fatso unsnap the strap covering his gun, place his hand on the butt, and start to draw it from the holster. So, that was it. He was going to kill my dog and claim he had been attacked! Without thinking, I reached my hand around the frame of the door for the baseball bat that I keep there—just in case it was ever needed.

The cop was four steps away, and I covered those four steps before he could draw a bead on Mickey. I didn’t want to kill him, only stop him from what he had in mind. Therefore, I swung and aimed for the side of his neck. I knew from experience that a hit to that part of the body will knock someone out without killing them. And if he experienced what I had experienced when hit in a similar manner, he’d have a nice memory of all those pretty stars he had seen. Well, he went down like a sack of potatoes. For some unknown reason, I stooped down, looked at his watch and made note of the time. That’s how I know the exact time of my death; because from the minute I laid the cop out, I was a dead man.

I knew you can’t win with cops. No matter what I said, no matter what my motivation, I had struck a police officer, and I struck the fucker hard! I was okay with that, but when he finished telling his side of the story, it would mean many years in the state prison for me. And I wasn’t about to sit in a box years on end. No, I would take the easy way out of this mess; get it done and over with in one day. Therefore, I started doing what needed doing.

The first thing that needed doing was to get Fatso off my front lawn. He was lying on his side, so I turned him over onto his stomach. I removed the handcuffs from their pouch on his belt and handcuffed his hands behind his back. Then I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him up the two steps leading into my trailer and through the front door. There, he was unceremoniously dumped onto my living room carpet. Next, I had to take care of Mickey. I called him in, and he went right for his would-be murderer’s face and gave it a good licking. My biggest concern was for Mickey; I had to get him off the property and safe. Because in a very short while, all hell was going to break lose.

I called my neighbor, the one who lived two miles down the road. On the very rare occasions I had to go out of town, I had always left Mickey with him. They were a two-member mutual admiration society. I told him something important had come up and I couldn’t leave my property, that I needed him to get his ass over here right away and get Mickey. He said he was on his way. That’s what I liked about Ben; you could count on him in a pinch and with no questions asked.

While I waited for Ben to arrive, I thought I’d get to know my guest a little better. For the second time that morning, I had to roll that big tub of lard onto his stomach. I extracted his wallet to find the proper manner in which he should be addressed. In other words, I wanted to know his name. I had trouble finding his driver’s license among all the crap he carried in his wallet. Once located, it gave me the name of the heap of humanity lying at my feet, Dilbert Chancy McClinton. What a handle!

Just as I ascertained old Dilbert’s name, I heard Ben drive up. I called Mickey to my side, and together we went out to meet him. He was just getting out of his truck as we exited the front door, but he didn’t notice us. He was enthralled with the police car on my front lawn with the driver’s side door wide open and the cop nowhere in sight. Ben finally noticed us when Mickey jumped up on him and licked his face. So Ben says, “What’s up?” while still staring at the police car.

“You don’t want to know, but I got a big favor to ask of you. Can you keep Mickey indefinitely?”

“Sure, you know how I feel about Mickey. But what’s up?”

“Ben, there’s bad, really bad, shit going down, and it’s going to get a whole lot worse. I want to protect you, so you haven’t been here today. They’ll have a record of my phone call to you, so when they ask you about it, just say I called to say good-bye. You tell them you thought I was going on a trip or something. I don’t think they’ll ask about Mickey, but if they do, tell them I gave him to you a week ago and he is now your dog. Unless they’re very vengeful, they’ll leave it at that. But please do all you can to protect him without getting yourself in hot water.”

“You know my brother’s a lawyer. They’ll have a goddamn hard time separating Mickey from me. But maybe my brother can be of some help.”

“Thanks, but it’s beyond that now.”

I told him to get going, I had stuff to do. We shook hands and he and Mickey got into the truck. I walked around to the passenger side and got there just as Mickey stuck his snoot out the window. I cupped his head in my hands and nuzzled him for a moment before telling him to be a good boy and mind what Ben said. As they drove off, a single tear trickled down my cheek.

Now to business. I went back into the trailer and checked on old Dilbert. Can you believe it, he was snoring! The son-of-a-bitch was napping while I had a million things to do.

The first of those million things was to call a local television station. I got Information on the line and asked for Channel 9’s phone number. Once I had it, I called the station. When the phone was answered, I asked for the news department, then the assignment desk. The young lady who picked up the phone sounded as though she should still be in high school. It made me feel old. Or maybe I was just feeling old because of my situation.

I said, “Listen, sweetheart, I’m only going to say this once.” She started to say something, and I cut her off, saying, “Just listen to what I have to say. I have a police officer held hostage in my home. His name is Dilbert C. McClinton and he works for Lake Worth. Call the cops and give them this information and my telephone number. I know it’s showing up on your Caller ID.”

She interrupted by asking, “But where are you?”

“I’m sure there’s a GPS in his car, and that the local constabulary will have no trouble finding the big piece of shit.” I added, “You get a reporter and camera crew out here pronto. Just follow the cops. I know you people do that very well.” I knew once she had called the cops, every television station and newspaper in the county would be in on the story, maybe even the 24-hour cable news networks.

What next, what next? Oh yeah, Dilbert! Before we were descended on by the barbarian horde, I had to get him up and functioning. But even before that, I had to ready him for a lesson in humility and empathy. He seemed to be semi-conscious by then. He was still lying on his stomach, so I had to turn the fuck over one more time. Once I got him situated on his back, I slipped his shoes off, unbuckled his belt, and removed his pants. I was happy to see he was a “boxer” man. It made what I had to do next a little less disagreeable. I grabbed the boxers from the bottom hem and pulled. I left his socks on for two reasons; I didn’t want to touch those fat feet of his, and a man with nothing on but a pair of socks is a rather ridiculous sight. Because I didn’t dare remove the handcuffs—he might have been playing possum—I went into the kitchen and got a knife. Maybe the same knife he would have thrown down next to my dead body. I cut his shirt from his torso. Dilbert C. McClinton was now a sight to behold. Nude as the day he was born, except for the socks.

It was now time to bring him around so he could participate in the festivities. I went to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water, returned to Dilbert, and with much glee threw it in his fat, stupid face. As he came around, I said, “And how is God feeling this fine morning?” Of course, he didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to; he just shook his head as if to clear it. I wrestled him into a sitting position on the floor and leaned him against the couch. I then grabbed him by his greasy hair, lifted his head until our eyes met and said, “Get your ass in gear, you sorry son-of-a-bitch. We got company coming.”

I think it’s about time I filled you in on what I had in mind. First of all, I was not a violent man. I did what I did to save my dog’s life. If I had wanted to, I could have swung as hard as I could and hit him upside the head instead of the neck, but then I wouldn’t be sitting here about to start a conversation with the asshole. No, he’d be lying dead on my front lawn. So it was not my intention to do any physical harm to old Dilbert. But if I could fuck with his psyche, why not? The outcome may be a kinder and gentler Dilbert. I was going to make him believe that I was going to do all sort of horrible things to him. In fact, it was my intention that when I got through with Dilbert, he would be asking me to kill him.

Before I could get his undivided attention, the phone rang. I answered it without saying anything; I just waited for whoever was on the other end of the line to identify his or her self. What I got instead was a question. “Is this William Doyle?”

It sounded like a professional negotiator. I had read enough on how this shit goes down to know they don’t give a crap about you, but will come off as your new best friend in an effort to manipulate you into doing their bidding. So, I figured I’d better set the tone of the relationship right off the bat. I said into the phone, “Listen, and listen good. I have a piece of shit in here that goes by the name Dilbert C. McClinton. I also have his service revolver and right now he’s sucking on the barrel, so he can’t come to the phone. I’m already dead, so if you want a dead cop, just come busting in here.” I hung up the phone, turned to Dilbert, and said, “Don’t despair. The cavalry is on the way.”

While we still had a few minutes to ourselves, I got to work on Dilbert. I sat in a chair opposite him and said, “What would you prefer? Being shot through the head or having your spinal cord severed so that you’d be paralyzed from the neck down? Oh, and by the way, if you choose option number two, you’ll need a respirator to breathe.”

His eyes got as wide as they possibly could. I continued, “Dilbert, old buddy, you’re pretty quiet for a god … say something. If you don’t choose, I’ll have to make the choice for you.”

Before he could muster an answer, we heard the sirens closing in. “Well, Dilbert,” I said, “Looks like your brethren are on their way.” As I said that, I picked up his gun and told him to open his mouth. I guess he didn’t quite yet appreciate his plight, so I struck him in the mouth with the barrel. Then I repeated myself. “Open your goddamn mouth!” This time he complied. I shoved the barrel in until he gagged, “You’re going to be the first to go if any heroes show up.”A trickle of blood started to run down to his chin from where metal had met flesh.

Within seconds, the phone rang. Without removing the gun from Dilbert’s mouth, I answered it and said, “Speak.”

“Is this William?”

“That is an inane question,” I responded.

I reckon my reply took him by surprise, because there was a hesitation on the other end of the line before I heard, “William, my name is Jack Kelly, and I was wondering if you would like to tell me what the problem seems to be?”

“Hey Jack,” I said. “We got no problem now; this fat fuck came out here to harass me and he threatened to kill me because I had a fight with his brother. If he didn’t have his mouth full of gun right now, I’d let him tell you what he’s doing out here in the sticks—in uniform—when he should be patrolling in Lake Worth.”

I wanted to leave Mickey out of it; they might track him down and use him as leverage against me. My statement seemed to give Jack pause. He eventually said, “Anything can be worked out. Why not let me come in and talk with you?” To which I replied, “Sure, come on in, but the first sound I hear, the first time my trailer sways in the wind, Dilbert C. has the back of his head ventilated. Hey Jack, let’s make this easy on both of us. You want your cop back and I want to talk to the media, so just call me when they get here and maybe we can wrap this circus up in time for you to get home for dinner.” He started to say something, but I hung up before he could articulate his thoughts.

Dilbert was getting kind of fidgety, so I thought I would do something to alleviate his anxiety; I took the gun out of his mouth. Then I said, “Okay, Dilbert, what’s it to be, blow your head off or put one into your spine?” He finally lost it and started blubbering like a baby. I would have felt sorry for him, but I had the vision of him taking aim at Mickey in my mind. I told him to buck up and be a man. I asked him how he thought the people he played God with felt as he was making their lives miserable—for there was no doubt in my mind that he had abused his police powers on many, many occasions.

I saw that I wasn’t making any headway with him; he didn’t care about the others he had wronged. No, it was all about Dilbert, and I knew that when he got out of here, he’d just continue with his evil ways. Short of killing him, the only thing that might protect the public in the future was to make it known exactly what kind of a stinker he really was. But that didn’t mean I was not going to make the rest of the day a living hell for Dilbert C. McClinton, because that had been my intention all along.

Just then the phone rang and I picked up the receiver. “What’s up, Jack?”

He told me the media was starting to arrive and asked me what I had in mind.

“First things first, Jack. We’ve gotta have a little talk.”

“What about?”

I proceeded to tell him about what.

“I know you have at least one sniper out there, so get this straight; if you see an eyeball peering out a window, be careful because in all likelihood it will belong to Dilbert. The poor boy is so compliant with fear, I think he would do anything I asked. Next: the swat, or tactical, team.” I went on to tell him that I knew those guys are always itching to put their training to use, but to keep in mind Waco and Ruby Ridge. By that, I meant the two prime examples of the government, and by government, I mean overgrown boys with a lot of toys (guns, explosives, etc.), attacking citizens when the serving of an arrest warrant would have done the job. Why do the ATF, FBI, and their ilk go on “raids” wearing black ski masks covering their faces, and nothing to identify them as law enforcement personnel? Why did the ATF deem it necessary to conduct a full-blown “invasion” of Koresh’s compound in Waco? He went to town every day, usually by himself and always unarmed. Why did the US Marshall’s Service traipse through the woods of Ruby Ridge masked and with M-16 machine guns? Why did they shoot a boy’s dog? And later, was it really necessary to shoot a mother through the head, killing her as she held her infant son? Of course, none of those acts were necessary, but the guys practice so long and hard and they have all that firepower, which is such a joy to behold, but more of a joy to use.

I told Jack that if they wanted their cop back in one piece, just play it cool; let me tell my story, and then they could have Dilbert back. But let me hear any strange noise—I knew every sound my trailer normally made—and scratch one cop. I went on to tell him that I hadn’t even locked the doors. “The gun is cocked and in his mouth. I can pull the trigger before a foot can be set inside my trailer.” Jack assured me that wasn’t going to happen. Yeah, right. They would break down the doors and come in blasting given the slightest provocation, like … it’s noon, and they want to wrap things up so they could go to lunch. I told him to call me when all the stations had their cameras set up. “I want to say something on live TV. I’ll come out to my front step and say what I have to say. But, before I do, I want to see the feed on my television.” I thought by telling them I was coming out to make a statement, the boys of the tactical squad would hold off for a while in the hopes of an easier target later on. Not that I intended to make myself a target for all the cops assembled on my front lawn. I mean, there were some were from as far away as Ft. Lauderdale.

I did not have the heart to fuck with Dilbert any further. He was crying and swearing to me he had not intended to harm my dog. “It was all a big misunderstanding,” he sobbed.

I went into the kitchen and got a large grocery bag, one of those brown paper types. My plan was to keep Dilbert docile. I had to inject some hope into his life. I told him that his pleas have touched my heart, and if he would be a good boy, he might just make it out of this mess alive and in one piece. That bit of news cheered him considerably; he nodded his head so vigorously I thought it might detach from his body. But to make sure he would not cause any trouble, I put the bag over his head and told him to just sit still and I would figure a way out of this mess for both of us.

About twenty minutes later, and right on cue, the phone rang.

“What’s up, Jackie?” was how I answered it this time. I wanted him to think I was feeling good because I was going to have my big moment on television. As I’ve intimated, it wasn’t going to be me making my debut on live television, but one Dilbert C. McClinton.

My old pal Jack informed me that they were ready, and if I would check my TV, I’d see the front of my trailer. I was told to turn on any local channel. I did, and lo and behold, there it was, my little domicile. I said to Jack, “Give me five minutes.”

He said, “Okay.”

Now to Dilbert. I removed the bag from his head and told him to pay close attention to what I had to say. It was somewhat pitiful the way he tried to please me. He said, “Yeah, anything you say, you’re the boss.” I agreed with him, and told him to shut up and listen.

“Dilbert—may I call you Dilbert?”

“Yes.”

“Dilbert, the next few minutes are going to determine if I live to see a new day, and if you are confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life or get buried with honors. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now here’s the plan. You are going to stand on my front steps and tell the truth of why you came here, how you threatened me, and how I did not strike you until you drew your gun. You got that?”

A third “Yes” came pouring out of his mouth. I didn’t bring up Mickey, and I hoped he wouldn’t, but if he did … well, there are a lot of dog lovers out there in TV Land. Then I had to tell him the bad news. He would go out as he was, with only his socks on. He would be tethered with a line, so the front steps were as far as he was going to get. And most importantly, his gun would be trained on the small of his back the entire time he was out there, and if one untruth, one lie, came out of his mouth, then we would both be very, very sorry. I finished our little talk by telling him that, if he did things right, he would be sent on his way. I knew he was thinking the entire time he could say anything and then retract it, claiming it was said under duress. That was fine with me. I just wanted the truth to get out.

I used Mickey’s extra-long leash to tie Dilbert’s still handcuffed hands to a support column, which would keep him from taking off as soon as the door was opened. There was just enough play to allow him to reach the door, and maybe a foot farther.

Before opening the door for him, I checked the television, same picture. That stopped the production in its tracks. Were they just feeding a loop of an earlier shot to fool me into believing this was all going to go down live? After all, what would I know, standing on my front steps, as they believed I would be doing very shortly.

Only one way to find out, I threw the door open and shoved Dilbert out into the limelight that was intended for me. I immediately stepped back and looked at the television. I need not have worried, this was too good of a story not to be covered live. There was Dilbert, not knowing quite what to do. He was as a deer caught in a set of headlights.

I knew I had to get Dilbert to focus. I said, in a menacing tone of voice, “Start talking or I’ll start shooting!” With that he spilled his guts. He gave the whole story, even admitted he was going to kill my dog. When he had finished, I cut his tether and told him to run. He hesitated a moment, as though he thought it some kind of trick. So I said, “Go, you big piece of shit, before I shoot you in your fat ass.” With that he was gone. I didn’t think the fat fuck could move so fast. I closed the door and sat down on my couch to await the inevitable.

There was no way I was going to get away with any of this. Even if every word Dilbert spoke was believed. I had assaulted and humiliated an officer of the law, and for that the law would come down on me hard. They had me for kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder, just for starters. I was looking at twenty to twenty-five years—if I was lucky. As I’ve said before, I was not going to spend my life in a cage. Then the phone rang. Who else but my old friend, Jack Kelly. Before he could utter a word, I said, “How did a couple of micks like us get ourselves into a situation like this?” He agreed with me that he had experienced better days.

I asked, “Are you going to arrest me after hearing Dilbert’s confession?”

“He’s already recanted everything. But for what it’s worth, I believe every word he said. Cops like him are an embarrassment to all us good cops.”

“Jack ol’ buddy, cut the shit. If he was such an embarrassment, he would be on his way to jail instead of me.”

To that observation, Mr. Kelly had no reply.

“So what’s next?” I asked.

“Well, are you ready to come out and give yourself up?”

“Why don’t you come in here and get me?” And then I hung up.

So that’s it. In a few minutes they’ll break in my door and come looking for me. I won’t be hard to find. My couch, upon which I am sitting, is only a few feet from the front door. As I said at the beginning of this narrative, it’s been nine hours and thirty-seven minutes since this nightmare began, and I’m tired.

There they are, the first one is through the door, I lift Dilbert’s gun and point it at him. I do not intend to fire the thing, I hate guns. He sees me, turns his M-16 in my direction, and the last thing I hear is the staccato rat-a-tat-tat of his weapon …

 

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Posted on Short Story

Denham Springs, Louisiana

denham-springs

It was Easter morning on Huntington Beach, California, 1969. I was nineteen years old. I had spent the night sleeping under a lifeguard stand. I only mention the locale because it is pertinent to the story—in a roundabout way.

I was in Huntington Beach that Easter morning because of food. Well, not good food, but food of any sort is good food when one is hungry. There was a storefront church right off the beach that every evening would serve us God and sandwiches. The way it worked was, they would go around during the day and collect day old sandwiches from stores in the vicinity to use as a lure to get the hungry into their place of worship. It worked pretty well, the joint was always packed. However, you had to have the God before they would give you a stale cheese sandwich. We also received miniature Bibles. Not the whole Bible, these little red books had a verse or two. I can remember them clearly. They were an inch high, an inch wide and about an eighth of an inch thick. And that cover, I will never forget that red cover. They come into the story later.

So, I’m tired of going hungry and sleeping on the beach, I’m thinking I’ll take a quick trip back east and visit the folks. You know . . . sleep in a bed for a change and eat a square meal once in a while. But before I left, at my last night at the Sandwich Church, I grabbed a handful of the little “Bibles” and stuffed them into my case. Back then I traveled with an old-fashioned suitcase. Three feet long, two feet high, and twelve inches wide; and solid, I could put it on its end and sit on it. That case must have done about 50,000 miles with me.

With my little Bibles and a cheese sandwich, I headed east. I had it down to a science back then. Three days from the California border to Miami or vice versa. At that time there was no Interstate Highway system. I made it as far as Louisiana. If you were going east to west, or west to east on the southern route, you took Highway 90. Going from west to east, highway 90 split at Baton Rouge. You could either go south into New Orleans or continue east toward Lake Pontchartrain. On this fateful trip, I did not go into New Orleans. I went straight ahead because the truck in which I was riding was going that way.

I was let off just outside a sleepy little town by the name of Denham Springs. I can still see the water tower with the town’s name emblazoned across it. Later, well into the 70’s, there was a cliché of a southern sheriff. He was fat, stupid, mean; he wore mirrored sunglasses, and he was very, very dangerous. He was, after all, the law—the only law you were ever going to get in his town. If you were an outsider, and he didn’t need your vote to get re-elected, then chances were good that if your paths crossed, you, and not he, was going to be the worse for it. That cliché had to come from somewhere and I know where. It was based on the sheriff of Denham Springs, Louisiana, circa 1969.

As the truck stopped to let me out and I started to climb down from the cab, a note of warning I heard: “That town up ahead, Denham Springs, has the meanest son-of-a-bitch for a sheriff. Do not hitchhike through his town. Just walk through and start hitchin’ on the other side.” I took his words to heart; I did not hitch through Denham Springs, Louisiana.

I proceeded to walk through that godforsaken town like the good citizen I was pretending to be. I made it halfway when a police car pulled up beside me and the “officer,” who was fat, mean, and wore the prescribed mirrored shades, told me to get in the back of his car. When a cop puts you in the back seat, you’re going to jail. Or at least that’s what I thought. Though it seems this joker was in no hurry to do anything. He just drove around town sayin’ hello to other troglodytes like himself. The whole time, I said not a word. Remember, I was just walking down the street minding my own business when I was accosted by this officer of the law. But as I’ve said, I kept my big mouth shut (for once) while he drove all over creation with me in the back seat of his police car. There were no handles on the inside of the doors, I was locked in.

denham-springs-lll

Finally, after about an hour of that, I said, “Excuse me, sir, but what’s going on?”

His reply: “Shut up, boy, you’re under arrest.” No fooling, he actually called me, “boy”!

So I shut up, sat back, and tried to enjoy the ride. Shortly thereafter, we pulled up in front of the police station. This cliché of a cop got out, told me to grab my case and come with him. Only one thing though, he forgot that I could not open the door from the inside. He was halfway to the cop shop before he turned and saw his mistake. So he had to come back and open the door for me. I was tempted to take my time getting out and make him wait there, holding the door open like a valet parking attendant. But my better sense said: You might still make it out of here in one piece, so don’t piss the asshole off.

We made our way to his little kingdom and it was there that I met “Barney.” Barney was not his real name; in fact, I never did learn his name. But he was the deputy to Fat Boy. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he was dependent on Fatso for his job, so he meekly went about carrying out the orders handed down by the sheriff. I called him Barney because he reminded me, in looks and manner, of the Don Knots character from the Andy Griffith Show, Barney Fife.

Then the inspection and interrogation began. My pal sat behind his desk, Barney standing off to his right, and me in the position of defendant before the bar. The first thing he does is open my suitcase and go through the contents. You never know, I might have been carrying explosives. Nope—no explosives found, but aha! I was carrying little Bibles. That had to mean something. So I was questioned quite thoroughly, if someone with an IQ of 76 can be said to know what a question is, let alone ask one.

“What are these?”

“Little Bibles, sir.”

“What are you, some kind of Jesus freak?”

“No sir. I just believe in the word of the Lord.”

I thought if I played at being a Goodie-Two-Shoes, I might get back on the road before too long. Boy, was I mistaken. My piety did not impress him, so I thought, What next? At that point, I figured I’d just play stupid and see what developed.

The next insidious thing found in my case was the infamous Carnation Instant Breakfast packages. There were about five or six of the damn things. Do you remember them? They were just a powder of some sort that one drank in the morning in lieu of a healthy breakfast. They were factory-sealed, and when Fats asked me what they were, I just stared at him. I mean, it was printed on the packages he was holding what the stuff was.  But Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to be fooled by any snot-nosed kid. No sir, no way.

This guy was way too sharp for the likes of me. Thinking there were hidden drugs concealed in those factory-sealed packages, he tears one open, wets the tip of his finger and sticks it into the package. He pulls out the fat finger with Carnation Instant Breakfast (chocolate flavor) stuck to it. He brings it up to his mouth and was about to lick his finger with the “drugs” sticking to it. But no, wait, this guy is sharp. He stops before tongue touches finger. He turns to Barney and holds up said finger. The unspoken command: Hey you, Idiot, come over here and lick this poison off my finger. You got to hand it to ol’ Barney, he did his duty. I don’t know who was more surprised that he did not keel over dead after ingesting the “poison,” Barney or Fatso. After a few minutes, when it was evident that my Carnation Instant Breakfast was not laced with LSD, the interrogation stalled.

It was at that point I thought I’d try my second gambit. The Holy Roller act hadn’t work, so let’s try motherhood. I was going to try to outsmart my captors.

“Sir, may I make a phone call?”

“Why? Do you think you deserve one?”

“No sir. It’s just that my mother is dying down in Florida, and I was on my way back to see her, and if I’m not going to get back there any time soon, I’d just like to say good-bye to her over the phone.”

I have to admit, I almost had him. I had Barney, no problem. I think I even saw a single tear trickle down his cheek. But at the last second, Fats says, “You know, we had a hippie in here last week, shaved his head and sent him out to the work gang. He’s now helpin’ build us a nice new road over on the north side of town. How’d ya like to join him?”

Okay, I thought, you got me, but I’m keeping my eyes wide open for you to make the littlest mistake, then it’s swish . . . I’m outta here.

Without further ado, he told me that in the morning I would have my hair shaved off and then sent out to the work gang for six months. No trial . . . no habeas corpus . . . no lawyer . . . no nothing!

It was now time to put me away for the night. At first, I thought Fats was going to have Barney do the honors all by himself. But no, Fats was enjoying himself too much, he wanted in on all the fun until the last possible moment.

It was as they were leading me up the stairs to the cell block that an idea came to me. As I walked slowly up those dark, dank stairs, I prayed for just one good break. That was all I needed, only one.

We reached the landing housing the three cells that comprised the Denham Springs Correctional System. The door to the nearest cell was standing wide open and there didn’t seem to be any other inhabitants about. Thing were looking up.

My plan was simple. I just had to antagonize Fats into physical violence. That shouldn’t be too hard. All afternoon I could see he was just itchin’ to give me a good one, right across the mouth. So, let’s see what you’re made of, Fatso! When we stepped in front of the opened door of the cell, he grabbed my left arm at the bicep and walked me inside. Great, thought I, this is the moment of truth. I yanked my arm from his grip, spun around and spit in his face. Well, that wasn’t so hard. He turned beet-red and let a haymaker go in the general direction of my jaw. Of course, I was expecting it, so I went with the flow. As soon as his fist connected, I went in the same direction in which his arm was moving; his punch had very little effect on me. But that’s not how I played it.

A moment to digress. When I saw the cell door open, and neither Fats nor Barney with a key between them, that’s when I knew I had a fighting chance. No key, that was my ace in the hole. You see, it had been my experience that one needed a key to open jail cell doors, but not to lock them. They locked automatically with some sort of spring mechanism. At least that’s the way it worked way back in 1969.

Okay, back to the drama. When I feigned taking his best blow, I grabbed my chest in the area of my heart, and said, “My heart.” (What else?) I fell to the floor, did a spasm or two, coupled with a little shaking, and pretended to pass out. As I lay there with my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell what was going through Fats’ mind, but I heard Barney exclaim, “Great, now you killed him!”

Fats was already in the cell, but my plan depended on both of them being in there with me. So, as Fats shook me, trying to elicit a response, I bided my time until I heard Barney enter. When I was sure he was far enough through the door, I jumped up and pushed them into one another. As one, they crashed to the floor and I ran out of that damn cell, clanging the door shut behind me.

Now Fats still had his gun, so even though he was entwined with Barney, I didn’t stick around to enjoy my victory. I bolted down the stairs, grabbed my case, and was out of the door before either one of them got to his feet.

Two blocks away, I hit it lucky and got a ride with a Peterbilt going all the way to Tallahassee.

Well, that’s about it, folks. The only other thing of interest is that about eight months later, I was hitchin’ through to the west coast and once again, I was let out near Denham Springs, Louisiana. And you know what the guy said as I left his car?

“Don’t go through Denham Springs, they got them a real mean sheriff there.”

My answer to his kind advice: “Yes, I’ve heard of him.”

Needless to say, I went through New Orleans that time around.

Yellow Hair

Posted on Blog

In the Twinking of an Eye

preacher lll

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 the along for the ride. The day before, Rick had called and asked me to go along 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 and invitation like that?

So here’s the scene. We had left the Interstate and were on a small county road. 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 the mountains are on both sides of the road. And there’s a fog coming up. Coming up from where? I don’t know, but this fog wasn’t descending like a good, descent 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 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. Man, were they spooky. Oh, I forgot to mention, it was a full moon, or damn 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 and most of the wood had rotted away, so that I could see right through them and see the moonlight and trees on the other side. It went on like that for mile after mile. Actually the buildings looked burnt, but I figured it was just a trick of my imagination considering the fog and moonlight. Then 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.” Now Rick may not be much of a conversationalist, but he’s hell-on-wheels when it comes to a quick come back. His retort: “Screw you!”

It was just about then that he saw it. I didn’t see it, but thank God that he did, or you would not be reading these words. Right there in the middle of the road was a large, a very large, pine tree.  Now 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!” And 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!” And I didn’t have to tell him twice. Before the reverberation of the sound of my voice was dissipated into the mist, Rick slammed the car in 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 the 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 fog. 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.

Now, I must admit I was scared shitless. But at that moment my friend Rick brought me back to my senses, at least for a minute. He said, “Fuck this!” and got out of the car and played a wonderful bluff. He stood by his opened door with his arms on the roof of the car 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 then he was gone, well … I went right back to being scared shitless. Then I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head, then 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. He was hanging by his arms, trussed up like a Christmas turkey. His hands and feet were tied and he hung from a wooden peg.

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 gag over his mouth. Standing, I went to him and started to untie the rag covering his mouth 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 down right 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 peg, which he did. When I had him back on terra firma and let go, 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.” Then I got to 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 wrist, I asked him what 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 hand a hand over my mouth and two brutes were half carrying me 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. Then I saw you on the floor grabbin’ forty winks, and it took you forever to come around. And that’s about all I know. What’s your story?”

I took a moment to marshal my thoughts and then I said, “I was knocked out at the car and came to on the floor. 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.”

Rick, he was now rubbing his ankles, said, “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, and 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 the 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. And 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.

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 is exactly what turned up next. After the two behemoths were ensconced 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, which hung down almost to his shoulders. And unlike the other two, he wore a hat. It had a wide, circular brim just like the preachers’ of old. He did not come in, but stayed 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 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!” Then he 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 a Bible. But I digress.

So they we all stood, the monsters, the preacher, Rick and I. No one said a word, no one said a thing. Finally 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 then the clothes he’s standing in.”

Replied Rick: “I’ll take the case and if we win I want his hat as my fee.”

However, The Preacher, as Rick and I took to calling him, forestalled 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.” Then he took a step toward the door. And that’s when ape number one moved to block Rick’s egress. Rick in turn tried to push pass him, but to no avail. Then The Preacher put in his two cents. “MY SONS ISAAC AND AARON WILL BRING YOU TO THE ALTER 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 there was something weird about that little guy.”

“No shit Sherlock.” “

No, I mean I was standing right in front of him with 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 that 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 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 the only avenue of escape open to us was run like hell when given the chance.

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

Because he was conscience when brought to our place of incarceration, Rick knew that we were about two thousand yards above the road we had been taken from. So we figured that all we had to do was run as fast as we could and the man-mountains wouldn’t be able to catch us. After all, it would be down hill 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 tell that is not necessarily so. This is what happened.

We sat in that damn cabin all day and watched the sunlight coming through the cracks move across the floor. Then the light got dim and then it got downright black, we couldn’t see anything. While we sat there in the dark we spoke of food. Not our salvation, no, we talked of charred steaks smothered in onions. Of grilled hamburgers with melted cheese with a side order of French fries. Surprisingly enough salads did not enter into the conversation, but hell, we were macho guys, no sissy food for us. Maybe I shouldn’t say that because we were scared and scared good. And all that long day I felt like the biggest sissy that ever that ever came down the pike.

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 before they knew what was happening. Next we started our sprint for freedom. 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 they still hadn’t moved. Things were looking up. That is until a line from a Robert Burn’s 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 I fell flat on my face. Rick heard me take the tumble, stopped and started back. However, we didn’t have time for any heroics. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel the gruesome twins bearing down on me. 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.

Now 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 then 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 just 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, but I couldn’t tell the sons of bitches apart, held me while the other went to get a rope. And when he returned the rope was wrapped around me and tied, pinning my arms 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 was 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 as the night before. And 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 few hundred yards from the cabin. And 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 damn knife I’ve ever seen. The blade was a foot long, the handle six inches. It looked more 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 the 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 seat next to Rick with us barreling down the highway. And all the while the mist rose and swirled around us.

Finally, 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 answered, “I am now.” And then I asked, “Where the hell did you come from, and is that a gun in your hand?” But before he could say anything I added, “Untie me; get these goddamn ropes off of me!” And as he untied the rope, the mist lightened and seemed to be seeping into the ground. However, that did not make an impression on me at the time. It wasn’t until much later that that fact hit home.

When I was free I looked at the gun. But before I could say anything, Rick said it would behoove us to get out of there before our “friends” came back. With that, I had to agree. So following Rick, we made our way down the mountain. It wasn’t too hard because the mist was almost all gone and we had a full moon.

We made the road in no time flat and 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 my thousand questions.

I’ll save you the back and forth of our conversation and just tell you what I learned. First of all we got into the car and Rick said we should go back to the last town we passed and report our little mishap to the local law. Him being a lawyer would suggest that. Personally I was for hightailing it out of that country and the sooner the better, but I said nothing.

As we rode this is what I learned.

When I fell 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 affect 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 weren’t there, he didn’t know how he’d get into the trunk. But they were and he did.

The rest was pretty straight forward. 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. And 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, but he informed me that he was aiming for the son of a bitch’s heart but the gun recoiled and 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 was only twenty or so yards from the action when he fired the gun and he told me it looked to him as though they had vanished in a puff of smoke. But we didn’t dwell on it.

We got to the town; it 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, and I have. The sheriff’s office was closed up tight, so we made our way to an all night dinner. 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 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 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 us walked to his office. Once he was comfortably seated behind his desk and contently slurping his coffee, and us 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 him. And then 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 we didn’t think to take the knife. The last time I saw it, it was lying where it had fallen when shot out of The Preacher’s hand.  Then the sheriff asked where exactly along the road did we encounter the pine trees. Rick hesitated, and then he said things looked different in the daylight and he wasn’t quite sure.

Then, 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 for a couple of miles”

Then 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.”

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

“Alleged abductions!”

Well, to make a long, sad story short, we never did find the place 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 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 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 was the truth. And we don’t believe in ghost. Maybe it was some local nut that knows the story of the crazed preacher and gets his jollies kidnapping and murdering people in that vein.” And 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 never was found. But it could not have anything to do with your boy, it 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 I 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’s 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 thought about what we went 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 (I still wondered why “Miss” Wells) and she 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.

Walking to a file cabinet, she opened the top drawer and withdrew a small box about three inches by three inches. She then 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; however it went out of business years ago, but we have all their editions on film.”

When we got to the machine she inserted the reel and started fast forwarding the tape, stopping every once in awhile to peruse the date, finally she came to April 23, 1884. 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 Rick and me. 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 the same asshole.”

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

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

But 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.

Then in the early morning hours of April 22nd, 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 that they had witnessed Pastor Stone and his sons at the other end of town setting fire to the few remaining houses not all ready 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 this 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 the town’s people stood at the front of the church and yelled for the preacher to show himself, which presently he did. Holding his Bible over his held (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. And 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 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 to him, “That crazy son of a bitch took someone out 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.”

And you know, 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 something like that. In fact he did. He saved my life! But when it came to the supernatural that was something else.

We didn’t speak much during the rest of the trip, and Rick refused to discuss The Preacher or anything concerned with what we went through. He seemed somehow embarrassed about something.  When we got to Denver, I caught a plane back to New York. And it’s now been more than thirty years since that night, and Rick and I have not spoken since.

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 PREACHER STONE!

Posted on Blog

Banditos

Banditos

It was an inauspicious beginning to a glorious ending.

His name was Jimmy Diaz; he hailed from America, but he had been kicking around Columbia for almost a decade. He had come to the country to hunt emeralds. He thought it would be a cinch to go out in the boonies, scratch at the earth and come up with a handful of emeralds. However, it did not work out that way. He shortly came to the realization that his dream was not going to materialize.

Now, after ten years of doing odd jobs, working as a laborer, doing anything he could to earn his daily bread, including stealing his daily bread, Jimmy was a bit dejected. He had a crop of prematurely gray hair, the few pesos in his pocket and no future. He didn’t mind the hair. And he certainly didn’t mind the pesos. It was the lack of a future that Jimmy was thinking of on the day it all began.

He was walking on the outskirts of a small town, a town that he could not find work in, when he saw the bank. Like the town it was  small, but a bank is a bank. And as Willie Sutton once famously said, “That’s where the money is.”

Jimmy stopped walking and sat down in the shade of a large tree. He had to give this some thought. After a while, he came up with a plan to enhance his prospects of a future. He would rob the bank, but not having a gun was problematic. So he gave it some more thought and in a few minutes, he smiled to himself, stood up and marched right into the building.

There were only three people in the bank. A man behind a desk that Jimmy assumed was the manager and two tellers behind old-fashioned teller cages; the kind with the bars on them and a small opening to slide the money though.

As he approached the manager’s desk, the man saw how Jimmy was dressed and (correctly) thinking him a peasant, was about to ask him to leave the premises. But before he could utter a syllable, Jimmy ensconced himself in a chair in front of the desk and said, “We have your children and if I’m not back to where they are being held in one hour’s time they will be harmed.” Jimmy had no idea if the man had children or not, but Columbia being a Catholic country, he thought it a safe bet that the man had many children.

The man turned rather pale and in a pleading voice said, “No . . . no, anything you want!” What Jimmy wanted was all the money in the vault.

“But senor, we have no vault, only the safe that sits over in the corner,” the man said while pointing to his right.

Jimmy shrugged and told the manager that would do nicely. He envisioned the safe chock full of crisp new pesos. However, when the manager opened the safe, there stood two lonely packets of old worn out bills. Jimmy shook his head and asked if that was all the money in the bank.

“Si, except for a few pesos in the teller cages,” answered the man. He hastily added, “We are but a poor bank.” Jimmy being the optimist that he was thought that at least the pesos would buy him a car to get from town to town and he wouldn’t have to walk anymore.

As he put the cash in his pockets, he reminded the man that if he did not make it back in time, the children would suffer. He added, “So don’t call the police.” And without further ado, Jimmy Diaz walked out of that rural bank a much happier and richer man than he had been an hour earlier. He had no escape plan, but he knew he could avoid capture by losing himself in the forest. After all, he had an hour’s head start. The manager would not call the police for at least an hour.

Jimmy had told the man not to call the police, but he said nothing about calling home. And that is exactly what the manager did the moment Jimmy was out the door. Of course, his wife told him all the children were safe and accounted for. The manager’s next call was to the police.

It was five minutes after having left the bank that Jimmy heard the siren. It was a small town and it had only the one police car. He ducked off the road and into a strand of trees just before the cop passed by.

Damn it! thought Jimmy.

There was nothing else to do but stay off the road, stick to the woods and get as far away from the little town as possible. That was Jimmy’s new and improved plan.

******

 Meanwhile, ten kilometers to the north, and little higher up the mountain, another little drama was playing out.

Paul Dix and Andy Stein were expatriated Americans. They were also bandits, but they were professional bandits. They robbed banks, stores, people, whatever was available. They would take the gold outta your teeth if wasn’t such hard work. Hell, they’d rob the livestock if the damn cows had any pesos. But one thing they did not do was rob anywhere in the vicinity of the town they called home. They needed a safe refuge for when things went south. Things seldom went south for Paul and Andy, but if they did, it was nice to know you had a hidey-hole to dive into.

The reason they felt safe in their adopted hometown was that they paid off the police. It wasn’t too expensive; there were only two of them. The chief, Juan Marciel, and his stooge, Hector Fernandez. And besides, it was the cost of doing business.

The drama alluded to above came about because the police chief demanded a bigger cut of the proceeds. To discuss the matter, the four came together in the woods where Chief Marciel maintained a small cabin to entertain certain ladies that his wife knew nothing about. The four business partners were not in the cabin proper; they stood outside its front door. Soon the discussion became heated, so heated in fact that all four drew their guns. It was a Mexican standoff. No, it was a Columbian standoff.

Juan and Hector’s hands shook. Andy and Jim’s did not. There they stood; four men and not one of them had any compunction about killing another human being. It was only a matter of who would blink first, or maybe it was a matter of who would shoot first.

“We’re not giving you crooked cops one more damn peso!” shouted Paul. Then said in a more sedate voice, “Throw your guns down and live to see another day.”

The cops blinked first. They tossed their guns on the ground and then looked at the Americans, as if asking, What now?

Andy answered their unasked question. “We’re leaving this hell-hole of a town and you won’t see us again. You boys got off lucky today, so don’t press your luck, vamoose while you can still vamoose.”

The two cops turned and started walking towards the town, but after a few steps, the chief turned and drew a two shot derringer out of the pocket of his pants. He yelled, “Fuck you gringos.” And then he died. Andy shot him four times before ‘ol Juan could get off a shot. Hector was nowhere to be seen. He played it smart that day.

“Well, what the hell do we do now that you killed the damn cop?” asked Paul.

“It was either us or him. But to answer your question, we get the hell outta here. By now Hector is on the phone to the National Police,” responded Andy.

They had to leave their stash, all the money they had in the world, in town. It wasn’t really their money, but they considered it as such. They headed up the mountain because they would be expected to go down the mountain to the road below.

Three hours later, their path crossed with Jimmy Diaz’s path.

*****

Jimmy was pretty worn out. He had been hiking up the mountain for hours. His only thought: to put distance between himself and whomever was looking for him. So he did not hear the men as they approached. The first inkling he had that he was not alone on that mountain was when he stumbled and fell. As he started to get up he looked into the barrel of the biggest gun he had ever seen. He had never seen a gun up close before, but when you are staring into the business end of one, it is the biggest goddamn gun in the world.

There were two of them. The one not holding the gun asked, “Are you following us?”

What? thought Jimmy.

Then the one with the gun said, “Paul, how can he be following us? He came in from the opposite direction. At those words, Jimmy took hope into his heart. He might not be shot in the next two minutes.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Paul, “we’re on the run. The Policía Nacional are most likely closing in on us right at this moment.”

“Hey guys, I’m an American just like you. I just robbed a bank and I’ve got cops chasing me too! So let’s join forces and get away from the cops together.”

These words did not have the desired effect that Jimmy had hoped for.

Paul said, “See, I told you. This motherfucker is leading the cops to us.”

Andy, being the calmer of the two said, “It’s not his fault. Let’s just keep on moving.”

As the two bandits started back up the mountain, Jimmy got up off the ground and said, “I have money. Take me with you and you can have half of it.” Then he took the two packets of pesos out of his pockets to show them to Paul and Andy.

Paul whirled, and raised his gun. Andy stepped between Paul and Jimmy and said, “My friend, do you really want to kill a fellow American that is in the same boat as us?”

Paul lowered his gun and said, “Fuck you.” But he said it with a smile. The three banditos then went up the mountain together, and to temporary safety.

******

Jimmy didn’t know it, but no one was looking for him, not the local cops, not the National Police, not even a lonely dog just looking for love. Nobody. But on the other hand, Paul and Andy had half the National Police from the Santander Province out looking for them. Hector had told them that they were the infamous Banditos Americanos. And to top it off, they had killed a police officer. Their bacon was fried, their goose was cooked, and they were toast as far as the Policía Nacional were concerned. But first the police had to find them. Then they would fry their bacon and cook their goose. No trial, just a fusillade of bullets. However, there would be no cooking or frying on that day. The three men made it over the mountain and started down the other side.

Soon they came to rail line, the tracks looked inviting. There would be no pesky traffic, some of which might be the police. And besides, they could hear a train coming from a long way off. Then they could scamper for cover well in advance of being seen.

By the time it was getting dark, they came to a town serviced by the railroad, which meant at some point in time a train would stop. It was decided that they would hole up there for the night and hope a train stopped before the police came. The plan was to make their get-a-way by train. Jimmy was detailed to go into the town and buy food while Andy and Paul hid out.

It was a long night and none of the three got very much sleep. But in the early morning, just before sunrise, the horn of a train sounded. It was hoped that the train would stop. It must have been known by now that the desperados went up the mountain and not down. The police would soon be swarming about.

Their prayers were answered, if indeed God answers the prayers of bandits, and the train stopped. Not a whole train, just an engine and a flat car attached. But it was all that was needed. The bandits watch as the engineer climbed down and walked to a shed adjoining the tracks. It was a woman!

“Do either of you guys know how to drive a train,” asked Jimmy.

“No,” answered Paul.

“Do you,” inquired Andy.

“Nope,” was Jimmy’s response.

It was decided that they would have to wait for the woman to come back, and then they would jump on the flat car as the train was pulling out. They did not have long to wait. As the car pulled out, the three left their place of hiding and one by one they jumped aboard.

They made their way to the engine. Paul was the first to enter the cab, followed by Andy and bringing up the rear, Jimmy. Paul had his gun out and pointed it at the engineer. “Don’t panic,” he said, “we will not hurt you.” To his surprise, the woman smiled.

“I know who you are,” she said. “you are the Banditos Americanos,” She continued: “Half the country is looking for you. And the other half is rooting for you to get away. But I thought there were only two of you.”

“Never mind how many we are,” said Paul “just tell us what half of the country you fall into.”

The woman spat on the floor and said, “I hate the police! “

Paul lowered his gun and smiled. Then turning to Andy he said, “Looks like we got us a ride.”

The short of it was that the woman told them to sit on the floor so they couldn’t be seen. They passed three towns and there were police at every crossing. The engineer waved at the police and they waved back. Because it was obvious she was the only one on the train, they had no interest in her or her train.

The train started to slow and Andy asked what was up. “At the next town I must stop and there might be police there. You should get off now. I have taken you outside their perimeter, you should be safe enough. Go with God mi amigos.”

When she and the train were gone Jimmy asked, “What do we do now?”

“What we do,” said Andy “is head north. Bogota is to the north, it’s a big city. We can get lost there.”

The Banditos were never seen again. They became the stuff of legend. It is said that they live in the mountains and only come out at night to rob the unsuspecting. Every robbery in the province is attributed to El Banditos Americanos. Parents scare their children into being good by telling them that the Banditos will take them away in the night if they do not behave.  However, the bandits do not live in the mountains, they no longer rob and they don’t steal children. This is what happened to El Banditos Americanos.

About an hour after leaving the train, they were going through some dense underbrush and Jimmy was having a tough time keeping up. Paul was leading the way and kept up the pace hoping to lose Jimmy. He and Andy were partners, they needed no one else. Andy, for his part only wanted to get to the big city and was ambivalent about Jimmy now that they had gotten over the mountain and through the police blockade. So Jimmy fell farther and farther behind. But not so far behind that he could not hear the two up ahead.

Then he heard screams and shouting. Then there was gunfire. Jimmy hunkered down and did not move. Hours later he ventured to continue on. He soon came to a small clearing and there on the ground were the mortal remains of Andy and Paul. They had been shot and then hacked to bits with machetes. They had the misfortune to have run into a band of men working for the local drug lord, and thinking Paul and Andy were the police, the drug guys killed them.

Jimmy made the sign of the cross and continued on. He eventually made it to Bogota after a few more adventures along the way that do not merit telling here. Suffice it to say that by the time he hit Bogota, he was a changed man. At  the American embassy he secured a passport after proving he was an American citizen by turning in his old passport, which he always carried with him. And with his ill-gotten gains from the bank heist, he bought an airline ticket back to the States.

Jimmy Diaz now lives in Florida, the city is not important. He is married and has two daughters. Oh, and a cat and two Cocker Spaniels. He does not have to work nowadays because on his way to Bogota he stumbled onto a field with part of a large emerald sticking up out of the dirt. He spent two weeks digging up more emeralds and when he had all that he could carry, he stopped digging and resumed his trek to Bogota. When he hit the big city he sold his emeralds and deposited the money in a local bank, telling the bank manager that he would be receiving instructions for a wire transfer soon. When Jimmy hit the States he opened a local bank account with the last of the money from his bank robbery. He then had his $387,589.00 wired up from Columbia.