One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  A jalopy, minus a top, clattered slowly down the street, loaded down with boys and girls in blue jeans and sweat shirts. The girls waved, standing up to display taut young breasts beneath tightly fitted shirts.

  A squad car, siren sounding, whizzed past, throwing dust in fast-falling clouds.

  A line of trucks, loaded heavily with racked lengths of pipe, rumbled toward the fields.

  A woman holding the hand of a toddling boy baby looked up and down the street before crossing.

  Somewhere, not far, a man called his son. “Jim-meeee! Oh, Jim-mee-ee!”

  Willa Ree stood on the steps of Ma Ferguson’s boardinghouse. In his pocket was a screwdriver, and he carried a paperwrapped hammer in his hand.

  He walked slowly along the street, toward the town, speaking to newspaper-reading men on doorsteps and front porches.

  In town, at the coffee shop, he had a sandwich and bottle of beer. He listened to drillers talk about women and oil wells. The sandwich was tasteless, but the beer was cold.

  Night had fallen and the street lights and neons flooded the town in too-bright varicolored patterns, misty and swimmy, and the sky was a pale blob without visible stars.

  He left the café and sauntered up the street, pausing to look at the window displays. A cool wind came from somewhere in the west, carrying with it some sand and dust.

  He turned right, passed the post office, and left the city lights behind. Two blocks, and he ducked into a dark alley beside Johnson’s grocery store.

  The window he wanted was at the rear of the building. There wasn’t even a screen over it. Well, the chumps were asking for it.

  Whistling soundlessly, he went to work. He took the screwdriver from his pocket and stuck it under the window. He heaved. The window wasn’t locked.

  It didn’t seem right, but maybe some clerk was careless. Either that, or it had been jimmied before, which wasn’t likely. But it was a possibility.

  Carefully, very carefully, he grasped the window and pushed it up. It squeaked a little. He held it with one hand and used the other to pull himself up. It was awkward, and he was puffing when he managed to shimmy through. The window squeaked slightly when he let it down.

  For a long while he stood. Suddenly, he realized that he was silhouetted against the window. He dropped to his hands and knees, moved to one side, and waited. He heard nothing.

  It took several minutes to locate the small business office. The door was closed. He tried the knob, hesitated, and pushed the door open.

  A man was on his knees before the small office safe. He was spotlighted by a flashlight lying on the floor.

  Ree’s hand went to his coat pocket. The man’s eyes, white and shiny and stary, were steady. He didn’t blink.

  Ree stood frozen, staring, unmoving.

  The man lifted his hands, slowly and carefully. “Just don’t get excited and shoot,” he said. His voice was low, steady, calm.

  Ree closed the door behind him. “You can take your hands down.”

  The man stood up. He was small, stooped, old. His head was bald and he had the face of a turkey gobbler. “You’re a cop, aint’cha?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man nodded in satisfaction. “Thought I seen you in uniform around town.”

  “Wrong,” Willa Ree said. “I never wear a uniform.”

  “No matter,” the man grunted. “All cops look like cops.”

  “I guess so.”

  The man grinned, his teeth shining in the light of the flash. “Got yourself a setup, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man shifted nervously. “This thing’s ready to blow.”

  Ree kept his hand in his coat pocket.

  The man cleared his throat. “Well, what’s the score?”

  “You want a partner?” Ree asked.

  The man grunted scornfully. “Looks like I got no choice. If I say no, all you gotta do is shoot me and take the money. It’ll look like I had a partner what was greedy.”

  “I could take you in,” Ree said.

  The little man’s knuckle went to his mouth and he snickered soundlessly. “You didn’t come here after me,” he said, “so you ain’t going to take me in.”

  “No, I’m not going to take you in. I’ll take you for a partner and we’ll clean up. I’ll case the joints. You blow the safes.”

  “Fifty-fifty?”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  “O.K. Better step outside while I blow this one.”

  Ree closed the door behind him and went to the back to prop open the rear window. He’d started back to the office when he heard the explosion. It wasn’t as loud as he’d expected.

  The old man was cleaning out the safe, stuffing the loot into a canvas bag.

  There was a lot of dust, an acrid smell, some smoky twirly stuff.

  “Let’s get outa here,” the little man said.

  Ree was first through the window and he helped the old man through. “What’s your name?” he gasped.

  “Baldy. Just Baldy.”

  “O.K., Baldy. Let’s go to my room.”

  Baldy shrugged. “Well, I guess it ain’t a trap. If you want me, you got me. I ain’t got no gun.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “You ain’t packing a gun?”

  “No gun.”

  “In that case, then, just oblige me by putting up your hands.”

  There was a .45 in Baldy’s right hand. Willa Ree put up his hands.

  “You’re making a mistake, Baldy. Stick with me and we’ll pick up every loose dollar in this town.”

  “Don’t know if I can trust you. A cop turned bad ain’t usually very trustworthy.”

  “Maybe I’m a good bad-turned cop.”

  “Could be.”

  Ree’s hand snaked out for the gun. The old man stood transfixed, staring at the gun that had been taken from him. Willa Ree felt sweat pop out on his face, felt his hand tremble.

  “I still want you for a partner, Baldy.”

  The old man laughed shakily. “Well, in that case, you got one. Never was one to argue with a gun. Now let’s get to hell away from here.”

  Ree whistled a gay little tune as they walked. He felt like dancing a jig. “How long you been in town?” he asked.

  “A week.”

  “Got a place to stay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cops bothered you?”

  “No. I got a union card and I wear good clothes. I stay clean. And I always manage to have a little money in my pocket. I don’t get drunk and I don’t fool around with women.”

  “Where’s your room?”

  “At my sister’s house out on the edge of town.”

  They avoided the lighted streets, walked slowly. Ree whistled his crazy little jig tune.

  “You’re brand new on the force, ain’t you?” Baldy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you blow a safe?”

  “No.”

  “Got a record?”

  “No.”

  “But you got everything figured out, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How was you aimin’ to crack that safe back there?”

  “I wasn’t planning to crack it. I’d have taken any loose money lying around.”

  The little man chuckled. “Bet you forgot to look in the cash register.”

  “Wouldn’t have been any use, Baldy. You took the easy money first.”

  Baldy clucked his tongue in cheek. “That’s right.”

  “I’ve got it all figured out, Baldy. This town is ripe. The city and county setup is rotten. People came here to get their sack full and they’re not interested in anything else. Stick with me and we can own the town and the people in it.”

  “Don’t care about owning no town and the people in it. Just so I get the money, that’s all I care about.”

  “We’ll get the money first!”

  They went around the back way, walking through the dark hall of the boardinghouse, and Ree
closed the door of his room before switching on the light. He motioned Baldy to a chair.

  Baldy placed the bag on the table.

  Ree filled two glasses from the bottle on the bureau.

  Baldy emptied the bag, letting the money pile out on the table.

  Tens and twenties, rising in a disorderly, conical pile.

  “Let’s count it,” Baldy said.

  They counted. Twenty-one hundred dollars.

  “I’m going to pay down on a car,” Ree said. “Maybe a convertible.”

  “You going to case me another job?”

  “Right away. Drop around Thursday night about this time.”

  “See you,” Baldy said. He stacked his money, slipped a rubber band from his pocket and banded the bills.

  Willa Ree had a second drink before he went to bed.

  In bed, relaxed, he made plans.

  Baldy had been a stroke of luck. Baldy was a tool, one he needed to crack the places with the real money. What he’d been doing was penny ante, child’s play, but Baldy would make the same work profitable, with the same risks.

  This dumb town, this damned dumb town. Suckers, a bunch of suckers. Fruit on the tree, ready for plucking. Everybody out to fill their sacks and too busy to protect the other fellow’s sack. All thinking it can’t happen to me. Like lightning and death.

  He’d buy a car, a bright red convertible, and let people wonder how he made the money for a car, a bright red convertible.

  He’d buy Laura a present.

  Something nice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Business was bad in August. There was little drilling activity and roughnecks and roustabouts went away to greener pastures, to Oklahoma and east Texas, wherever oil was king.

  Ree lined up two jobs a week for Baldy. Sometimes the take wasn’t over a grand, sometimes a little less, but now and then the haul was big.

  For a while they concentrated on liquor stores, and then they hit a clothing store, a movie house, a grocery, and a department store. They split twenty-five thousand dollars.

  The Telegraph wrote editorials.

  Halliday called one day. “Take it easy, Ree,” he said. “It’s getting too damned hot around here.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he’d said.

  “Just take it easy,” Halliday said, and hung up.

  Halliday didn’t know for sure, but he was suspicious.

  Baldy began to grumble about the split.

  “I do the real work,” he said.

  “That’s right, Baldy. But without me casing for you and giving you protection, you wouldn’t have the work to do. You’d have pulled a job or two and skipped town. Right now you’d be a thousand miles away, lying low and spending your money and waiting until things cooled off.”

  “I was doing all right.”

  “Like hell.”

  “O.K.,” Baldy said. “If you’re so damned smart, why not blow your own jobs?”

  “I’ll do that, maybe. Things are getting too hot around here anyway. One more job and we’ll split up. Only you’ll have to skip town.”

  “Name the job.”

  “Johnson Tool.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. It’ll be a big haul. They keep the dough in a cracker box. We’ll split fifty-fifty and call it quits.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Meet me at my room.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock. The building won’t be hard to crash. It’s got heavy doors and bars on the window, but they overlook the restroom in the back. It has a window. It’s small, but we can snake through. They thought it was too small to worry about.”

  “What about alarms?”

  “No alarms. The box is simple. It sits in an office that can’t be seen from the front.”

  “Another chump setup,” Baldy said. “No watchman?”

  “No watchman.”

  Baldy grunted. “See you tomorrow night.”

  Willa Ree rode in the patrol car with the young cop, McKelvy.

  “I’m nervous,” McKelvy said.

  “How come?”

  “Well, you’d better be nervous, too, because the council is meeting tomorrow. Emergency meeting, they said. Something tells me hell’s going to bust loose around here.”

  “What about?”

  “All these robberies. Crime wave, the paper calls it. The Chief’s on the spot, and I’ll bet he gets the sack.”

  “Well, that’s what newspapers are good for. The Telegraph has been running those editorials every day. They seem to think cops should be psychic or something.”

  “Yeah,” McKelvy sighed.

  “The thing is that an oil town’s rough. They all are, every last one of them. The drifters and the grifters and the bad babies always like to turn up in an oil town for some fast money. This town’s no different, and it’s not Bronson’s fault.”

  “Tell that to the council,” McKelvy said.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “You’d better lie low and keep quiet,” McKelvy advised. “They’re liable to shake up the whole damned department.”

  “Well, I was looking for a job when I found this one.”

  “So was I, but I got mighty tired looking. This looking for work is tough work, and I don’t mean maybe.”

  “Wonder who’ll replace Bronson?”

  “Oh, they’ll pick up some old codger who stands in good with the old settled element around town—with the ranchers and the businessmen.”

  “Well, I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “Yeah, so have I.”

  “No use worrying about it, McKelvy. They might not even fire Bronson.”

  “Maybe not. If we could only get a line on those safecrackers we’d be in.”

  “Yeah.”

  The neon sign made a lot of light, but the dim bulb inside the building couldn’t compete. Only the front part of the Johnson Tool Company was lighted, and dim forms of shelves and machinery loomed behind the small circle of low watt brilliance.

  They went around back.

  Willa Ree stood on an apple box and jimmied the window. It came up hard, but it came up and stayed up. He got down off the box and gave Baldy a leg lift. With much grunting and wriggling, the old man disappeared into the darkness.

  Ree climbed up, squeezed through head first. It was a tight squeeze.

  The door leading into the main building was unlocked.

  “They keep a dirty toilet,” he told Baldy. “This place smells.”

  The safe was in an office. Baldy plugged his drill cord into a socket and blew the safe with a rag shot. It was a snap.

  Willa Ree waited outside on lookout. He went back to the office and opened the door. “The dough there?” he asked.

  Baldy held up a parcel.

  “That’s good. That’s real good, Baldy.”

  The muscles of his face wouldn’t relax. They felt stiff and sore. He tried to smile and the skin around his mouth felt like it would crack.

  “What—?” Baldy began.

  “Why’d you bring your gun tonight, Baldy?”

  “You brought your gun.”

  “Maybe I knew what you were thinking.”

  Baldy licked his lips. “Maybe I knew what you were thinking.”

  They stood, stiff and tense, and stared at each other.

  The old man dropped the parcel and went for his gun. His movements were fast, incredibly fast, and his claw-like right hand dipped under his coat.

  Willa Ree was faster. The gun barked. He squeezed the trigger, but it seemed an eternity before the hammer fell and the gun barked.

  Baldy’s hand was under the coat, and then it was coming out, and then the gun appeared and swept up and out.

  Willa Ree’s gun jumped in his hand again and Baldy’s body jerked and twitched and began to crumple. Even as he fell, his gun fired, and Ree flinched as the bullet hit and shattered the glass of the door behind him.

  Baldy fell face down, arms outspread, s
till.

  A feeling of loneliness, a feeling of despondency, swept like a cold breeze over Willa Ree. He felt numb and tired. Almost, he felt afraid. And lonely, so all alone lonely.

  Baldy had been a friend, or what passed for a friend. But he’d been complaining about the split and he’d been carrying a gun.

  Maybe he always carried a gun. Well, why shouldn’t he? Fear, if it was fear, was a grasping clammy thing.

  Voices, clanging and monotonous, spoke inside his mind. Gotta move fast, move fast, move fast, gotta move fast, move fast.

  His pulse was hard and fast, and his breath seemed to sing, wheeze and sing in dreadful and rhythmic cadence, as he picked up the parcel and headed for the back of the building. It took a long time to slide through the window, and, once outside, he could see but dimly. He trotted across a junk-strewn lot and stopped beside a gas meter. His wildly groping hands found the lid of a sunken water shutoff. He lifted the lid and set it aside, falling to his knees and stuffing the parcel in the hole. Swiftly, but quietly, he replaced the lid and hurried back across the lot.

  He climbed back through the window, found the iron bar he’d used to jimmy the window on the floor, and he wiped it with his handkerchief. Breathing hard, fighting the voices in his brain, he walked to the front of the building.

  Once more he drew his gun from the holster beneath his coat. Facing the back of the building, he fired three times. Glass shattered and tinkled, and he reholstered the gun. He went into the office, where Baldy lay, stepped across the body and picked up the telephone. He dialed police headquarters.

  “Drake? Willa Ree. Listen, I’m at the Johnson Tool Company— Yeah, west Main. I got one of the safecrackers but the other one got away. Send out an alarm— What? Yeah, he’s dead. I think I might have clipped the other one but I’m not sure. Check with the hospital and all the doctors in the book— Okay, I’ll be here.” He hung up.

  His legs trembled and the muscles jumped. He felt shaky all over, and his stomach was queasy.

  He thought— How much money, how much—maybe twenty, maybe forty—Martha Halliday had said forty. But poor old Baldy, the poor poor old guy, maybe I shouldn’t have.... Too late for that kind of thinking. Time to act. Stay cool and act. If Baldy’d ever got caught he’d have sung like a phonograph.