One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  There were fifty thousand people in Breton.

  Few had planned to stay, but they stayed, held by the hope of oil, promise of oil, the fickle goddess of oil.

  There were seventy liquor stores in Breton, and twenty churches.

  The venereal rate was high, Bronson had said, especially among the young and in The Flats.

  The courthouse was surrounded by transplanted elms. The City Hall, too new and bare and modern, looked out of place. A fire house joined the City Hall, and the jail, always full, was on the second of its two stories. There were two newspapers in Breton—The Telegraph, a daily, and the semiweekly Traveler.

  Ree drove to The Flats.

  A Negro youth shuffled down the middle of the dusty street, and Ree coasted to a stop beside him and said, “Get in.”

  The youth gasped, started to speak, but Ree opened the car door. The boy got in.

  “You’re in trouble, son.”

  “But I ain’t done nothin‘ at all, Captin!”

  “Shut up.”

  “But I ain’t....”

  “Shut up.”

  The boy’s mouth slacked open. He began to tremble.

  Willa Ree drove out of town, taking his time, humming under his breath and ignoring the boy. The last honky-tonk and service station faded behind. Flat land stretched away to the horizon, studded with derricks, sprinkled with sage and sand and washed by the sun. A dirt road intersected the highway, and Ree turned and drove fast for a mile. Both sides of the road were fenced. A rotting coyote was draped over the fence, and grinning steer skulls sat atop posts. First a jack, and then a road runner, darted from the ditches and disappeared into the sage.

  “You’re in trouble, son,” Ree said softly, stopping the car.

  “But I ain’t done a single thing, Captin,” the boy moaned.

  “Get out.”

  “What you aimin’ to do?”

  “Get out, now.”

  “But I swear I ain’t done nothin’,” the boy said. “Not nothin’, Captin! I swear I....”

  “I said get out!”

  The boy moaned.

  Ree got out of the car, circled behind it, and opened the door on the boy’s side.

  The boy got out and stood trembling.

  Willa Ree smiled.

  The boy tried to smile, but only his lips moved. Willa Ree hit him with his right hand, and blood poured from the boy’s nose. He staggered, but didn’t fall.

  “I ain’t done...”

  With his left, Ree hit the boy in the stomach. The boy’s breath left him with a grunting sigh, and he doubled over. A right caught him on the jaw and stretched him on the ground.

  Willa Ree began to kick, but not too hard.

  When the boy stopped squirming, Ree bent over and opened an eyelid. White showed.

  Taking his billfold from his pocket, Ree removed the checks he’d taken from the hardware store. He stuck them in the Negro boy’s shirt pocket, buttoned the flap, and straightened up and found a cigarette.

  The boy opened his eyes and began to cry. Willa Ree took the cigarette from his lips and stuck it between the boy’s lips.

  “Get up and get in the car, now,” he said.

  The boy dug with his elbows, grunted his way to his knees, caught hold of the car door and stood up. Ree helped him get inside, closed the door, lit another cigarette, and then got in.

  “You’re in trouble, son,” he said.

  “Yessuh.”

  The boy cried softly, rubbing his eyes with a sleeve.

  “So what have you got to lose, son?” Ree asked the boy.

  He drove fast on the way back to town, parked the car at the side of the Hall, and helped the boy inside.

  Bronson had seen him from the office window and was waiting.

  “Think we’ve got our man, Chief,” Willa Ree said.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Resisted arrest.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Well, I had a tip on this boy and I think he’s the one.”

  “It’s not right,” Bronson said. “Beating up on a kid like that, I mean. If a cop wants to fight and act brave, why don’t he pick somebody his own size?”

  “I do sometimes.”

  “I’d like to see it! Why is it that cops think they have to beat up on drunks and Negro boys?”

  Willa Ree shrugged his shoulders.

  “What makes you think this boy pulled the job?” Bronson asked.

  “A tip.”

  Willa Ree searched the boy’s pockets, saving the shirt pocket until last. He grunted when he found the checks.

  “Guess that ties it up,” he said.

  “Well,” Bronson said after he’d looked at the checks.

  “Book him and see if he’ll tell where he hid the money.”

  “O.K.”

  “And don’t beat it out of him, either.”

  “You’re the chief. Anyway, I wouldn’t beat a guy in jail. A guy hasn’t got a chance to defend himself in jail.”

  “Does he out of jail?”

  “Well,” Willa Ree said. “I don’t carry a gun.”

  Chapter Ten

  Laura Green saw Willa Ree many times before he noticed her.

  In the morning, or after lunch, every day, she saw him going down the walk to the Hall. He looked more prosperous than he had that morning in the café, for now he wore tailored gabardines and hand-stitched cowboy boots. His walk was arrogant, flauntingly arrogant, or conceited, or something, and she despised it and him for it, but still she was attracted.

  The attraction was a challenge and it angered her.

  He couldn’t call himself handsome, and yet he could.

  Instinct prompted her to appear cold and aloof. She began to go to work early, parking near City Hall and waiting for Ree to walk past. She smoked, sat in the convertible and smoked, pretending not to see him, but still she felt his eyes strip the dress from her body. And, still, he did not speak.

  Sure of himself, she thought. Taking his time.

  And then, one day, he spoke.

  She nodded, coolly, curtly.

  After that, he spoke every day. And every day she nodded, eyes veiled and disinterested and cool and mocking.

  On one day, a hot day, she ate lunch early and went to sit in the car. Her breath came dry and hard and her dress stuck to her body with a gritty feeling, and she opened the car door for air.

  Time passed, but no Willa Ree passed, or perhaps he had eaten an early lunch.

  Perspiration covered her body, and she straightened her legs, her feet hanging out the door. There were no passers, no cars, no sound but the sound of the wind, and she lifted her dress above her knees and stretched her legs, let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

  When she opened her eyes, he was standing before the car door, staring. Then he smiled.

  She slid her dress down.

  “It’s hot,” he said.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Thirty-three West Seventh,” she said.

  “I’ll be there at eight.”

  “I won’t be there.”

  “You will be.”

  “But I won’t.”

  His voice was soft. “You’d better be there.”

  A threat? But, how a threat?

  “I don’t fool around with little old policemen,” she said.

  “I’m not a little old policeman,” he said. “I’m a detective, and you are Laura Green and your father is a preacher. What’s more, you’re on the make for me.”

  Shock made her gasp. “Well, of all the....” She turned angry red.

  And then she laughed in his face.

  He slapped her—hard.

  His face swam before her eyes. His lips were moving, but rage thundered in her ears and blotted out the sound of his voice.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  “I will,” he said. And he walked away, whistling.

  She got out of the car. He h
ad stopped on the walk.

  “I’ll see you at eight,” he said.

  Later, at work, she blamed herself. She’d been too obvious. And she shouldn’t have had her legs out like that and dress up.

  Maybe, she thought, he was just showing off. Maybe he’s nice, after you get to know him. Maybe he’ll take me out to dinner, and later to a show, and then, maybe, he’ll kiss me a little... and be nice.

  On the way home, though, she wondered if she wanted him to be nice.

  She planned how to act, how to talk, what to say. She would be dignified, aloof.

  Apologize for the legs and the dress and the laugh. Take the blame, for after all, she’d provoked him. Maybe he’d apologize, too.

  She bought a bottle of liquor after work, went home and ate a sandwich, tidied up the living room. What to wear?

  After her bath she fixed her hair and nails, and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped into a negligee.

  She laughed and thought, Now how the devil do you figure on being cool and aloof and dignified in a negligee?

  And he’d been like—what? A little boy, she thought, a spoiled little boy, selfish little boy....

  He knew her name and where she worked and where she came from. She had long, brown hair, and she was tall, beautifully tall, and she had the legs.

  Once he’d seen her wearing a thin dress without a slip, and he heard that men often followed her for blocks.

  She drove a convertible, and every day she parked near City Hall and smoked a while before going in to her work.

  He thought of her often.

  At night, in his room, he thought of her walking down the street, hips swaying, legs flashing as her heels click-clicked on the pavement. Her legs were golden-honey colored, and when he thought of her, at night in his room, he could see the flashing of the legs as she click-clicked down the walk.

  Sometimes, at night in his room, a tight feeling of desire knotted his throat, and, lying on his bed, the pillow made a sounding board that made the throbbing of blood in his throat audible, throbbingly audible.

  At night, in his room, the thought of her was tantalizing, so that sleep wouldn’t come, and he would lie on his bed and close his eyes to make her appear with tanned golden legs flashing. On these nights, with gritted teeth and mind ordered to stop thinking, he’d succeed in pushing the vision away, only to have it return when he became drowsy and forgot to guard whatever it is that retains the photographic images of tanned golden legs flashing.

  That girl, he told himself, is the girl I’ll marry.... Like hell, like hell, like hell I will....

  He saw her sitting near the Hall each morning, and after lunch. She’d be in the car, smoking, and each day he’d speak and each day she’d nod.

  There’d been no rain in June, and July was hot and dry. The earth was hard packed and cracked, and the wind was a constant howling, mournful thing that swished dust through the streets of the town. Lawns withered and yellowed, and planted trees, carefully pruned and nurtured, drooped thirstily. Ranchers came to town to stand on the streets or sit in the hotel lobby, speaking little, squinting at the sky. The sun became a white hot tormentor, coming up hot in the morning and growing hotter and hotter as the hours passed.

  Ree didn’t care.

  Ree had a good idea what was expected of him now. The town was ripe, dead and juicy ripe, and he was ready for the plucking. When Halliday, if Halliday, gave the word, he’d pick the town clean.

  Now, though Bronson remained cool, Ree reported for duty at eight. Gradually, subtly, he began to set up a detective detail. Wesley avoided him, as did a few members of the force, but he did his work and ignored Wesley.

  On most days he drove around the town, dropped in at honky tonks and pool halls, drank beer and swapped gossip, and little by little, piece by piece, he began to weave the fabric of the town.

  And, one day, he walked down the street and saw Laura Green sitting in her car, with the door open, legs sprawled out, feet sticking out the door.

  He started.

  She must have felt his eyes, because she sat up, smoothed down her dress and crossed her legs.

  “It’s hot,” he said.

  He’d asked where she lived, and she had told him.

  “I’ll be there at eight,” he said.

  “I won’t be there,” she had replied. And he had been fresh, smart, too fast. She laughed in his face and he had slapped her.

  And, at eight, he took a cab to the address she’d given. It was a garage apartment, and he climbed to the steps and knocked.

  Footsteps inside.

  The door opened and she stood silhouetted by the light, her body outlined beneath the negligee.

  “Are you going to ask me in?”

  “Come in.”

  He sat down on the couch, propped his feet in a red leather chair, and smoked.

  She went into the kitchen, and he heard the clinking of glasses, the clicking of ice cubes.

  She brought the drinks on a tray.

  “Not poisoned?”

  “Drink and see,” she said.

  “Good,” he said.

  “I hope you choke.”

  “You don’t, not really. Why do you talk like that, anyway? You’re not fooling me.”

  “No?”

  “What’re you trying to do? Live recklessly?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Trying to convince me that you’re fast enough to handle me?”

  “Maybe.”

  He put his drink on the table and stood up.

  She shrank back, slid into a red leather chair, and he had to pull her up, his arms tight around her, his mouth seeking hers.

  She pushed him away.

  He was breathing hard, but so was she.

  “Afraid?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to kiss you.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, her hair, the back of her neck. Her head fell back and he kissed her lips gently.

  Her arms went around his neck, and now his kiss was savage and demanding. Her lips tightened, trembled, parted.

  He picked her up and carried her to the couch.

  And, in the early morning hours, he went home, shaken.

  Drop her, he told himself. She’s a trap, a man trap.

  He couldn’t sleep.

  She had cried. He had held her close, for she needed holding close. His murmured words had soothed her, and she had slept.

  She was like a child. And, yet, so unlike a child.

  More woman than he had ever known, ever hoped to know, ever wanted to know.

  “I love you,” she’d said. “I love you so much, and it hurts.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. “But love shouldn’t hurt.”

  “My kind does, though,” she said. And she had gone to sleep.

  Time became nothing to Laura, was unheeded, uncounted.

  To Ree, it passed slowly.

  Laura worked, and the hours were filled with thoughts of Willa Ree.

  He was tender, gentle, possessive.

  The days passed, and the nights passed, but the nights passed faster than the days, for he was with her at night and gone with the morning, so that days became times between nights, commas and dashes, the turning of pages.

  The days and nights passed, and then they ran together, molded themselves to the weeks, with no separating points and no intervals.

  Love, she thought, is not this, for this is not love—or is it—and if it is love for me it might not be love for him, so don’t love.

  Even in her dreams, sleep dreams or day dreams, she couldn’t picture herself as Willa Ree’s wife. Or, rather, she couldn’t picture him as her husband. Somehow, he didn’t fit into the picture.

  His name was in the papers, now, and people talked about him. He made traffic speeches before clubs and school children, speeches about dope and vice, talked over the radio, submitted articles to the paper.

  “The guy’s a comer,” someone s
aid.

  “The guy’s trying to be chief of police,” someone said.

  The days passed slowly to Willa Ree, for the town was ripe and Halliday might never have existed, for no word came.

  Maybe, he thought, maybe I should tap the graft for myself. Maybe Halliday isn’t connected.

  Bronson, finally, drew into a shell and allowed him to run the detective squad as he saw fit. He was assigned three rookie cops and Sergeant Swing, and he was efficient.

  He received invitations to speak before clubs, and he talked about organized crime. The clubs ate it up. He was invited to speak over the radio once a week, and accepted, and the paper asked him to submit a series of articles.

  They ran his picture in the daily Telegraph, but the semiweekly Traveler reported his speeches in tongue-in-cheek style.

  Still, the town was ripe for a plucking, and it seemed that Halliday wasn’t going to call.

  And, then, Halliday called.

  “Ree,” he said, “how about coming up to my house for dinner tonight?”

  “Why, I’d like to.”

  “Good. I want you to meet Sam Byrd. How about eight o’clock?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “Good. Be expecting you, then.”

  And, for the rest of the day, he felt good. The time had come.

  He drove around town, strangely exhilarated and confident, and the town looked like his town, felt like his town, smelled like his town.

  Even the gas smell was different.

  “I’ll pick you like a ripe grape,” he said. “Like a ripe grape, and I’ll squeeze you dry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben called Nora. “What’re you and Sam doing tonight?”

  “The usual, Ben,” Nora said. “Sam’ll swill beer until he’s groggy, and then he’ll switch to liquor. Then he’ll pass out and I’ll read a book.”

  “Well, bring him over to the house early, before he has a chance to take a drink, and have supper with us. There’ll be a fellow there I’d like you to meet.”

  “Oh, who is he?”