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

The Preacher

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

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

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

“You must not interfere.”

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

“I am family to man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

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Posted on Short Story

The Plan

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

The Plan

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

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

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

“RUTHLESS SMUGGLER USED LUXURY YACHT TO FOOL COAST GUARD”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scratch one potential hazard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll have a key.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, let’s do it.”

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

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

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

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

“PRISONER KILLS SELF WITH POISON”

Well, I told him it would kill a rat.

 

[caption id="attachment_2495" align="aligncenter" width="188"] Click to see on Amazon[/caption]

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Posted on Short Story

V-8 Ford

Another one of my hitching adventures.

V-8 Ford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever the hell that meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, nigger.”

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

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

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

“Yeah sure, but where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sorry. I forgot.”

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

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

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

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

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

One last point of interest:

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

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Posted on Short Story

Everything's Jake

Everything’s Jake

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

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

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

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

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

“I said whiskey,” growled the stranger.

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

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

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

“Yes sir.”

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

“Hey you, boy, come over here.”

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

“You got a name, son?”

“Yes sir. It’s Billy.”

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

“Yes sir.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Whatcha want, Billy?”

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

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

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

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

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

Part Two

Jeanie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much is dangerous?”

“It depends on body weight.”

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

“You would go to sleep and die.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGuire.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, he was dead.

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

The End

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Three Steps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had me some thinking to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Green Grass of Home

The sun sends its warm rays down onto the world, onto the trees and onto the green grass of my home. God is in his Heaven as I lie in my grave—my home of two years. I killed a man. I killed him out of fear, fear of losing my love. But I lost her anyway when they hung me from the old oak that stands out front of the courthouse.

My name ain’t important … hell, I ain’t important to no one no more to except maybe the worms that crawl through my body and feast on my flesh.

I had me some bottomland, only forty acres, but it was mine. I had cleared it and planted corn and sorghum in the spring of ’85. I was a man in love. Her name was Faith and she was the most beautiful woman in the world, at least to me.

This is my story.

I’ve never been around womenfolk all that much, so I wasn’t prepared when I first saw her. I was in town for supplies. I had just finished loading my wagon when she walked by. She looked like an angel. Her hair was long and raven-black. As she walked away, the light shone on her hair and rippled as it would over a small placid pond. Her eyes were gray. She made my legs quaver. I fell in love.

I did not see her again until the grange meeting. I went because the topic of discussion was to be water rights. I had my water, but if someone was going to take some of it, I needed to know about it beforehand. She sat stately in the front row. Nothing much was accomplished at the meeting. Afterward, I stood outside lighting my pipe when she walked up to me. She was so beautiful that I got weak in the knees.

“Hello, Mister MacDonald, my name is Faith Simpson. My people own the land next to yours. We just moved here from the East and I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

That was the beginning.

Before I knew it, her family had my water and she had my heart.

On the third moon of our meeting, we were betrothed.

Then, on a cold dark night, I made the mistake of my life. She was standing on a chair, putting up curtains in my cabin. She was getting it ready for when she would live there. Jim Peters—from up a ways on the mountain—had come down on his way to town and stopped by when he saw the light in the window.

I know now that I was mistaken, but this is what I saw. As I walked up to the cabin, through the window, I saw her in his arms. Now I know that she had stumbled and Jim caught her before she hit the floor. But I didn’t know that back then. I pulled my gun and sent Jim Peters to another world.

It was a mistake. It was my blunder, and for that I lie here in my grave and try to feel the warm sun on the green grass of my home.

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Turkey Shoot

On a cold December morning in 1890 with snow on the ground, three hundred and fifty unarmed Lakota Indians (120 men and 230 women and children) were massacred at Wounded Knee Creek by soldiers of the 7th Cavalry—Custer’s old outfit.

The Congressional Medal of Honor was awarded to twenty-three men of the Seventh. This is the story of one of those brave men.

(An Excerpt from the Novel, Yellow Hair)

All One Hundred And Twenty Men, one hundred and twenty-one if you included Yellow Hair, formed a single line. Each man was to place his weapons—knives, tomahawks, and war clubs, as well guns—in a pile as they advanced to the front of the line.

Yellow Hair was farther back; at the head of the line stood two soldiers with an officer off to one side. The Indians were to place their weapons on the ground between the two soldiers. Slowly the line moved forward. When Yellow Hair progressed to near the front, he saw the large pile of guns, but he had no intention of giving up the Winchester Sitting Bull had given him. He already had his knife safely hidden on his person. When it was his turn to place his rifle onto the pile, he would tell the officer his story and see what developed. If necessary, he would tell them that he was a White Man, and upon close inspection, he would be believed.

Yellow Hair was fourth from the front of the line when it stopped moving. The young man at the front, Šuŋgmánitu sápA (Black Coyote), raised his gun in the air and shouted, “I paid much for this gun. I will not give it up!”

A soldier approached Black Coyote and made a grab for his gun. In the ensuing struggle, a shot rang out. Black Coyote’s gun had accidently discharged. At first no one made a move. The entire camp was quiet. Then, without warning, the Hotchkiss guns started to rake the tipis, going through their skins as though they were not there. The people inside the tipis, those that were not killed instantly, ran out in panic. The Lakota men who had given up their guns ran towards the pile in an effort to retrieve them, but most were cut down by the fire from the Hotchkiss guns. The few who still had possession of their guns began to fire at the soldiers.

With bullets flying every which way, Yellow Hair ran as best he could, considering his limp, to a ravine that was off to the west. Without slowing, he jumped over the lip and almost landed on a dead woman sprawled on the incline. Next to her was an infant, still alive, oblivious to the horror going on around him.

He plucked up the child and made for the bushes at the bottom where he found a woman and a small girl hiding among the scrub. The girl was crying and the woman was shaking from head to foot. Yellow Hair handed the infant to the woman and said, “Do not worry, Mother. Neither you nor these children will die this day.” He made sure that his gun was fully loaded; he was prepared to shoot the first soldier that stuck his head over the rim of the ravine.

They were the only ones in that area, but one hundred yards to the north, men, women, and children were huddled at the bottom while soldiers stood above and shot down at them. Every once in a while he could hear someone shout, “Remember the Little Bighorn!”

The Seventh was getting its own back that day.

While that was going on at the ravine, the men behind the Hotchkiss guns continued to fire at anything that moved. Unfortunately, for some of the soldiers in front of the guns that meant them as well. In the frenzy, soldiers were killing soldiers as well as Indians.

Not all the Lakota ran to the ravine. Some ran to the open prairie in an effort to escape death. None of them had weapons; they were just running for their lives.

A few of the soldiers made for their horses and, as if they were on a buffalo hunt, ran down the fleeing people. As they approached their prey, they would cock their revolvers and fire. If they missed, they would turn their horse for another try. One trooper was heard to exclaim, “Great fun, I betcha I get more than you!” When the carnage was over, Lakota bodies were found as far away as five miles, which led some to speculate that the soldiers toyed with the Indians to prolong the hunt.Denneen l

Back at the ravine, when targets became scarce, one of the soldiers on the rim started to make his way in Yellow Hair’s direction. His name was John Dinneen, a private in the Seventh. That morning he had killed fifteen unarmed people, ten of whom were women and children. Now he was looking for more “turkeys.” That is how he thought of the cowering Indians. At one point, he yelled to his compatriots, “Come on, boys, it’s just like an old-fashioned turkey shoot and I’m a-gonna win me a prize!”

Dinneen made his way toward Yellow Hair’s location, searching the bush for Indians. He walked slowly and purposefully; he did not want to miss any “turkeys.” Because of his slow progress, the tension built within the woman and girl. Finally, it became unbearable for the girl and she bolted from her hiding place.

Dinneen saw her and smiled to himself. Under his breath he muttered, “I oughtta git two points for this one. Them small ones is hard to hit, especially when they’re movin’ so fast.”

As he raised his rifle to his shoulder to take aim, Yellow Hair stood, sighted Dinneen, and fired.

The bullet, though aimed for the man’s heart, plowed into his left shoulder before he could fire at the girl. With a shout of pain, Dinneen dropped his gun. The look of astonishment on his face made Yellow Hair smile. He cocked his gun for another try at the man’s heart, but Dinneen turned and ran before he could sight him.

Yellow Hair looked for the girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. Looking down at the woman, he said, “Do not worry, she got away. She is safe.” He did not know if it were true, but it was the only thing he could say.

Private Dinneen’s wound was not life-threatening, although, because of nerve damage, he did lose the use of his left arm. But other than that, he lived a long, if not particularly fruitful, life. He—along with twenty-two other “brave” men of the Seventh—was given the Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery at Wounded Knee. His citation read in full, “For conspicuous bravery in action against Indians concealed in a ravine.”

It seems as though Private Dinneen did indeed receive his prize for the turkey shoot.

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