Lester said, “It should be the FB of I.”
“It’s their bureau,” McMahon said, “they can call it what they want. That lint picker J. Edgar Hoover’s still running it.”
“I’ve seen him,” Lester said. “He’s a slick article but acts like he’s got some old-woman in him.”
“They called back this morning to say Nestor Lott’s no longer an agent. They had trouble with him in Georgia, shooting moonshiners he didn’t have to, and fired him. All you boys have to do is arrest him for impersonating a federal officer. But now I’m thinking once you get him, hand him over to the county prosecutor. I think shooting the miners will be enough to get him electrocuted. You won’t have to fuss with him over wearing the badge.”
Lester said, “He’s hiding someplace?”
“He’s raiding places that sell liquor,” McMahon said. “Nestor and about fifty of his spooks, these Klansmen he calls his Christian Avengers. All Fausto and the cops can do is watch.”
Lester said, “Well, if selling booze is against the law—”
“For Christ sake,” McMahon said, “I want you to arrest the man and hand him over to the county. Can you do that without arguing about it?”
“I just want it clear in my mind,” Lester said, “who’s who.” As they got up he said to Carl, “You can drive this trip. Put a Thompson in the trunk, case Nestor wants to make something of it.”
Carl was aware of Bob McMahon watching them. He didn’t say anything now and neither did Carl. Carl never had much to do with Lester Crowe but listen to him talk.
Bob says he don’t want me arguing with him. Was I arguing? I said if this man Nestor Lott is closing down speakeasies he’s upholding the law, isn’t he? Whether he’s impersonating a federal officer or not. Am I right on that? You’re damn tootin’.”
Carl was falling asleep driving the two-door Chevrolet the hundred miles of farmland and hills thick with redbud trees, from Tulsa down to Krebs, listening to Lester talk.
“We’re suppose to arrest this guy for pinning a badge on his chest while he’s doing what his job was before the operators fired him and he had the coal miners shot? Bob seems to think he’ll burn for it. Oh, is that right? How about leaving it to a court of law?”
Carl was wondering if he’d see Louly Brown again. If he’d be back in Tulsa while she was there for her interview.
“There’s nothing simple about a marshal’s job,” Lester said. “Apprehend wanted fugitives. It sounds simple. But what’s a fugitive? A person wanted by the law who flees or escapes. Has Nestor Lott run away? No, he’s down there making raids on people breaking the law.”
Carl was looking at Louly Brown in his mind, her red hair, thinking she wouldn’t be too young for him if she was twenty. But she might still be in her teens. He had seen her date of birth but couldn’t remember it now. He believed it was 1912.
Lester was telling Carl about Lake Okeechobee now, in Florida, where he was from originally, this giant lake thirty miles long and only six feet deep, like a huge saucer, alligators in it, and some of the finest bass fishing in the whole country.
“The hurricane of twenty-eight, a hunnert and fifty mile an hour wind blew the lake over the muck dike and killed eighteen hunnert and thirty-eight folks.”
He said he was thinking of going back there.
Carl was still thinking of Louly Brown.
They came to Krebs and met with the chief of police in his office. The first thing Lester wanted to know, why in hell hadn’t Fausto picked up Nestor and thrown him in jail.
“Because he has more men than I do,” Fausto said. “All those bogeymen in bedsheets who enjoy shooting their guns.”
Lester wanted to know what in hell the county sheriff was doing about the situation. “Some convicts ran away from a road gang,” Fausto said, “and the sheriff is out with his dogs. His favorite thing.”
Lester decided what they’d do. He’d stay in town with the Thompson, wait for Nestor to hit a speakeasy still open, here or some other coal town to the east. Carl’d go out to the roadhouse the chief told them about. Lester said, “Fella runs it use to be in the Emmett Long gang.”
Carl didn’t say anything.
7
The night before the raid on the roadhouse Nestor told his Avengers at the rickety church, “I want us to come at them out of the sun, first light shining hard on the window glass as we roll up on the place. They don’t hear us, they’re dead to the world from boozin’ all night. They open their eyes to squint out the window, they don’t even see us till we’re spread across the front of the place. Twelve cars or more with .30-30s, a case of Austin Powder, caps, fuses, as I announce to them with the bullhorn, ‘Come out with your hands in the air or get blown to hell. Bring your whores out into the light of day.’ You set your torches afire and advance on the house.”
These people loved their torches. They said you bet, that’s how to do it, run the scalawags out of the county.
The next morning it was still dark when Nestor got to the church with his canteen of coffee laced with brandy, something he’d picked up in France during the war. It started him thinking of that time sixteen years ago, moving out of the village of Bousheres to take the woods, and how he had to keep his men moving in the howl of German artillery splintering trees, pounding out shell holes to bury them under mounds of earth. His officers had said the French command were idiots, we’d never make it to the woods. Except the Frogs were running this side of the war and if they said take the woods, even if you might get your legs blown off or your voice burned out by mustard gas, you took your men to the woods. Nestor had stood in the open waving his big revolver, the Webley he’d taken off a dead British officer some time before, waved it screaming at his men to come on, keep moving, threatening to shoot anybody pretending to be hit or trying to hide. He did, too, shot three of them looking right at him, and the rest ran across the field, most to get mowed down by machine-gun fire. Nestor lost more men that summer than any platoon sergeant in the Seventh Infantry and was given a medal for valor.
He wore it this morning, his Distinguished Service Cross, pinned to the breast pocket of his suitcoat, below the bureau shield on his lapel, waiting from dawn till going on eight o’clock before all his Avengers had straggled in. The late ones saying well, shit, they had their chores, didn’t they? Or their wife was sick or their dog got run over. Nestor finally had twelve cars here counting his De Soto, a couple of men in some, no more than four in the others, thirty-four Avengers all told.
Except now the sky was overcast, no way to come riding out of the sun. Shit. But as long as they were here, armed and ready, Nestor said, “Hell, let’s get her done.”
Carl Webster arrived the night before.
He walked in the roadhouse and up to Jack Belmont at the bar, only a few miners down the shiny length drinking.
“You having a slow night?”
It turned Jack around and he had to look toward the door to see who else was coming in. He recognized Carl Webster in his panama, couldn’t be anyone else.
“You raiding the place by yourself?”
“I’m not the one does that,” Carl said.
He let the ex-convict son of a multimillionaire stare at him not knowing what was going on. Like the girls at the table in kimonos and playsuits were staring with raised eyebrows, waiting. Carl recognized a couple of them from a house in Seminole and took time to touch the brim of his hat to them.
Jack Belmont was squinting now, trying to focus on what this marshal was doing here.
“Don’t tell me—you came to try to arrest me.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Carl said, “but I haven’t seen your name on a warrant since Emmett Long passed on. You aren’t a big enough name with the Marshals Service.”
That caused Jack Belmont to have to think of something. He said, “Then you must’ve come in for a drink.”
“I don’t mind,” Carl said.
He watched Jack Belmont motion to the bartender who brought
a couple of shot glasses over and filled them up. Carl raised his and took a sip, gave Jack a nod and finished the shot. He said, “I don’t raid stills or liquor joints, but you know a fella’s been doing it around here. I imagine it’s why you don’t have too many customers this evening. Nobody wants to get shot over a glass of whiskey.”
Jack said, “You’re talking about Nestor Lott.”
“That’s the one. He comes by, I’ll be here to put him in jail.” He saw Jack Belmont frowning now. “For pretending he’s a government agent,” Carl said. “You aren’t allowed to do that, even if you think it’s for the national welfare. Stop men from getting drunk and beating up on their wives.”
Jack said, “You want another?”
“I don’t mind. He’s got those Klan dimwits running around shooting people.”
“You think he’s coming here?”
“Sooner or later, seeing as you’re in violation of the Volstead Act.”
The bartender filled their glasses and Carl drank his.
Jack said, “You come here by yourself—you think you can stop him?”
“You’re gonna help me,” Carl said.
Jack watched this marshal in his dark suit and nifty panama roam the place looking out windows. Over at the table with the girls now, talking to them, acting like he knew Violet and Elodie. Jesus, he even knew Heidi, Heidi running up to him with a big grin. Now they were hugging each other like they were sweethearts. This marshal must’ve spent some time in Seminole at the whorehouse. Else he’d arrested them for prostitution, got to know them that way. But would they be glad to see him?
Carl Webster was not like any officer of the law Jack had ever met—with their official way of speaking, never smiling at anything you said was funny.
Now he was at the bar with Norm Dilworth having another drink, talking like they were pals. Talking about Emmett Long or prison most likely, the marshal knowing what Norm had been doing with his life. Jack stepped up to the bar to join them.
They were talking about guns.
Norm coming right out to tell him he had his own Winchester, his favorite gun, a couple of revolvers, .38s, and a double-barrel scatter gun. Now he was saying Jack was the one had the guns.
Carl turned to him. “Is that right?”
Jack hesitated, a government cop asking him something like that.
But then Norm said, “Jack brought a few hunting rifles to pass around and a Thompson submachine gun he bought off a guard at the prison. Case some gang tries to take over the business. Come down from Kansas City or Chicago. I wish I’d had it when Nestor Lott raided my speak. He come in shooting, killed my bartender standing with his hands in the air. One of the miners yelled at him, said something in Italian, and he got shot too, for no reason. A whole crowd of KKKers come in wearing their bedsheets and got busy busting the place up, smashing bottles…But you know they took a few with ’em.”
Carl said, “He didn’t put you in jail?”
“I slipped out while they were busy.”
Carl kept facing Norm. “How many men you have here?”
It irritated Jack. He said, “We got enough.”
But now Norm was telling him two bartenders, two bouncers, a couple of colored boys, one of ’em cooks. “I never asked did they know how to shoot, the two being colored. The maids don’t come till morning. With us three that’s seven I know of can use a gun. And Heidi, that makes eight. I know my wife can shoot, I saw her.”
“No kidding,” Carl said, “you two are married?” Carl grinning at the hayseed. “You got a smart girl there’s had a hard life.”
Jesus Christ, now his grin irritated Jack. Talking about a whore like she was some sweet girl lived down the road. He said to Carl, “You must know Heidi pretty well.”
“We’ve talked a couple of times.”
Jack said, “After you screwed her?”
Carl stared at him without a trace of what he was thinking on his face. He said, “You can be a mean bugger, huh? Nobody pays attention to you.”
“I’m talking about when she worked in a cat house,” Jack said, “in Seminole.” He turned to Norm saying, “I don’t mean since you got married. You understand that, don’t you?” Norm seemed to nod his head and Jack felt he was okay, being an honest Injun and said, “I mean, after all, she was a whore at that time, wasn’t she?”
Carl said, “Norm, does he run this place?”
Jack looked at Norm.
Norm saying, “He acts like it. What I think he does mostly is sniff around Heidi. If he’s what she wants, I don’t need her no more. But she hasn’t said nothing.”
“That’s not my business,” Carl said. “You tell him what Nestor’s like?”
“I sure did.”
Jesus Christ—talking about him, Jack standing only a couple of feet away.
“What’d he say?”
“Said don’t worry about it.”
“Means he can handle Nestor?”
“Beats me.”
Jack looking from Carl to Norm and back again.
Carl saying, “Why doesn’t he want me to help him?”
“He’s a spoiled kid,” Norm said, “thinks he’s smart. But hasn’t had an idea yet for making money that’s worked. I’m the one said let’s get in the whiskey business.”
“What do you stay with him for? Find an oil patch’ll hire you and get a regular job. You know how this life ends.”
“Dead or in the clink,” Norm said. “I been thinking about drawing my cut, take Heidi out of here before she gets in trouble.”
Jack’s eyes moved from Norm as he mentioned Heidi to Carl.
Carl saying, “Where’s the Thompson? You ever fire it?”
Norm shook his head.
“Get it, I’ll show you how it works.”
Norm said, “You want a drink first?”
Carl said, “I don’t mind.”
They both turned to the bar.
Jack got into it saying, “Listen, I did tell Norm don’t worry about us getting raided.”
Carl Webster looked around, his elbow on the bar.
“I thought I’d pay a fine,” Jack said, “and we’d be back in business, the way I heard it works. You say we can defend ourselves, that’s different. Let’s get out the guns.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Carl said. He turned to the bar and picked up his whiskey.
Jack waited. He wanted to yell at them to look at him, goddamn it. It was like when his mom and dad used to argue about what to do with him and he’s standing there listening, looking from one to the other. His mom saying he was a spoiled brat, the same as Norm Dilworth did. What took Jack by surprise, Norm thinking he was fooling around with Heidi. He never believed Norm was wary or smart enough to notice anything going on. Then Norm saying there hadn’t been an idea of his yet that worked, and was thinking of pulling out, taking his cut and leaving.
All right, this Nestor, pretending to be a government agent, he’d come on a raid or he wouldn’t. He came, it would be all right to shoot him. Good. That didn’t seem to be a problem. But Norm Dilworth leaving, taking Heidi with him, was something Jack would have to get busy on.
Nestor, still at the church this morning but ready to go, had pictured his twelve cars of Avengers spread across the front of the roadhouse, facing it, but changed his plan.
These whiskey people were criminals and would be armed. It was too late now to sneak up on them. They start firing they’d shoot holes in the radiators and the cars would sit there after, useless till they were repaired.
The way to do it, come down the road from the highway and pull up one behind the other on the shoulder. There’d be the ditch to cross and then the parking lot, about 150 feet of hardpack to the roadhouse, open ground, shouldn’t be more than a few cars parked there this morning. He’d use the bullhorn, give the whiskey people time to come out. They didn’t, he’d send his Avengers to advance across the open yard in their robes, holding up their torches.
Nestor had watched the
se men fire their rifles and picked out the ones who’d shot and killed three of the striking coal miners: the Wycliff brothers, aggressive young punks, and a fella name of Ed Hagenlocker Jr. that everybody called Son, born of some tramp his daddy had been seeing at the time. Son liked to brag his old man was now married to a woman name of Sylvia who was the widowed mother of Pretty Boy Floyd’s girlfriend, Louly Brown. “A cute girl,” Son Hagenlocker said. “I can see why Pretty Boy’d want to get on top of her.”
Nestor issued these three Springfield army rifles from his personal store and would keep these boys close to him, the Wycliff brothers and Son, all dead shots, on the road behind the cars. He’d send the thirty Avengers toward the roadhouse in three waves, spread out, walking toward the front entrance with their torches.
They’d likely get shot at and some would go down. Well, in any action you had to expect taking casualties. At the Somme in 1916, during the Great War, the British Expeditionary Force lost 58,000 men in one day. Second battle of the Marne, 12,000 American boys were killed during the assault. Hell, from July to November the British counted 310,000 casualties trying to take Passchendaele during the Ypres offensive, and the town wasn’t even that important. It’s what happened in war, men got killed.
Tony Antonelli was pretty sure there’d be shooting, mortal wounds suffered, and he’d get to call it “The Bloody Bald Mountain War.” He could open the story with:
“It began with an imposter named Nestor Lott, a cold-blooded killer who wore a .45 automatic on each hip, a man who had no regard for human life. Nestor Lott had been dismissed by the Department of Justice as a special agent, but chose to continue his mission, not simply to close speakeasies but to destroy—”
No, first he’d have to tell about Nestor being hired by the coal operators to break the strike. How he got the Klan to help him. How they shot and killed three Italian miners, wounded seven others—
The Hot Kid Page 9