The Hot Kid

by Elmore Leonard

  “It must’ve stepped in a hole, why it fell down.”

  He felt like talking, proud of himself shooting those dumbbells coming with their torches. Wasn’t anything to it. Lever and fire and watch them get knocked off their feet. He’d have to wait for the right time to get Norm, now wanting Norm looking at him when he did it. He wouldn’t mind getting the drop on Nestor Lott and plug him, too.

  Carl had the two bouncers with revolvers and pick handles at the front windows downstairs, on either side of the entrance, guys Norm had hired: Walter the fistfighter and the other one they called Boo, who’d been in a storage tank fire and was lucky to get out alive. From his left profile Boo could be taken for William Boyd, the movie star. He turned his head and Carl saw his right ear had been burnt off, the skin on his face red and shiny. One eye was gone and he wore smoked glasses day and night to hide his disfigurement.

  Carl had the feeling he knew him. Not since he was in the fire, before that, up to a year ago. And had the feeling Boo was watching him, biding his time. He asked Norm what Boo’s name was.

  Norm said, “Billy Bragg. I hired him, he was selling whiskey his brother made, up in the Cookson Hills.”

  Carl was nodding. “I knew the brother, Peyton Bragg.”

  “You arrest him one time?”

  “I shot him.”

  The two Negroes watched the back of the place from the kitchen, Franklin Madison and his grown son James, by an Indian woman. Carl had spoken to Franklin last night, learned the man had served on a frontier station out west and in Cuba in ’98, the same war Virgil had fought in. Franklin had been married to a Chiricahua Apache woman, the daughter of a reservation jumper who’d been shipped to Oklahoma with Geronimo and that crowd. It gave them more things they had in common to talk about. Carl telling Franklin his grandmother was Northern Cheyenne, giving him some Indian blood. Franklin telling about the fight at Las Guásimas in Cuba where the Tenth saved Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders after he’d marched them into a jackpot. Carl had listened to him last night and got rifles for Franklin and James.

  Outbuildings stood along the back of the property, what looked like a pump house, a tractor shed, a chicken house, then a thicket full of scrub standing behind the structures that became dense with redbud as the hill rose to Bald Mountain. Then, in the middle of the lot, the line of seven cars parked facing the house.

  Carl said to Franklin, “You ever get a look at this Nestor Lott?”

  Franklin said no, but he’d heard the man was evil, had those coal miners shot.

  “He could sneak up behind the cars out there.” They stood a good sixty feet from the back of the house. “I’ll bet anything,” Carl said, “Nestor won’t want to go home till he’s settled this.”

  “He’s still here,” Franklin said, “you won’t have to track him.”

  Carl judged Franklin’s age as close to seventy, a mostly bald black man with a sprinkle of white stubble over his jaw. They stood on either side of the kitchen window looking out at the yard, sunlight had given the cars a shine, but the sky closed in and now rain was coming down.

  Franklin said, “What about the dead people in front? I know they ain’t going nowhere, but was it all right to shoot ’em like that?”

  “I have to phone Tulsa,” Carl said, “ask my boss about it. I came here with another marshal, but I don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing.”

  Franklin said, “What if the sheriff come along?”

  “Then the county’ll look into it. The coroner will say those fools out there died of gunshot wounds, making it official. Then the county prosecutor will want to know who shot them, maybe have Jack Belmont brought up on manslaughter. That’s if the Klansmen want to testify. But if they shouldn’t be here in the first place, maybe they won’t say anything. If the judge is in the Klan, that’s something else.”

  “Will you appear?”

  “If they charge Belmont.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Then I’ll take him to Tulsa,” Carl said, “and get him charged with something.”

  Carl glanced at the True Detective writer standing in the kitchen doorway. Tony waiting until Carl finished before saying, “You won’t be able to make your call, they cut the telephone line. I tried it a minute ago.”

  Carl said, “So he’s close by.”

  “You sound like it pleases you,” Franklin said. He called out, “James?” And told his son to come in here.

  Carl watched Franklin talking to him, James nodding, Franklin giving him an old converted Navy Colt from out of a kitchen drawer, winking at Carl. Now James took off his shirt. He walked through the bar to slip out the front in the cold rain.

  “Gonna see if he can locate Nestor,” Franklin said.

  “He can do it,” Carl said, “without getting shot?”

  “James knows tricks from his mama’s people,” Franklin said. “How to stand almost in plain sight and you don’t see him.”

  Nestor had picked Son to work around through the woods to where the telephone wire came out from the house. “Shimmy up the pole with a knife in your teeth, boy, and cut the wire, so they can’t call anybody for help.”

  Son came back to the tractor shed with his arms skinned but had done the job.

  Nestor looked out of the shed now to see the rain coming down hard to wash the cars parked back there and turn the yard dark. Man oh man, perfect. He could start making his move, not have to wait till night.

  All three boys had been patient so far. Now they were acting restless and would voice their anger over the dead lying out front. Or they were putting it on, wanting to start shooting. Son telling him, “They’s two of ’em show theirselves at that window,” and raised his rifle to draw a bead. Nestor had to tell him to keep his pants on while he worked out what they’d do. How he’d set it up to take every last person in there.

  One of the Wycliffs said, “Some of ’em’s women.”

  “Whores,” Nestor said.

  Son was afraid somebody’d come along the road and see the bodies. Nestor said, “And keep driving, not wanting any parts of this business. Or going by they might only see the cars parked along the shoulder.” But the boy was right, they had to get her done pretty soon. He said to the Wycliff brothers, “You two think you could sneak out there, see if anybody left the key in their car?”

  You bet they could, and slipped out of the shed to slither through the weeds, the cars between them and the back of the house. Watching them through a space between the boards, Nestor said, “You know their Christian names?”

  All Son knew they was Wycliffs. Him and the brothers had never been close, other than when they were out burning crosses or throwing rocks at the Eyetalians, over in Sans Souci Park, the Eyetalians celebrating Mt. Carmel Day, whatever that was.

  Nestor said, “Those boys must’ve fallen off the turnip truck, but they sure can shoot.”

  The Wycliffs came back to the tractor shed soaking wet and grinning at Nestor. Yeah, the Ford Coupé on the end and that black car right in the middle of the row both had keys in them. Nestor, pressed to the slit between the boards, said, “I believe it’s a thirty-three Packard, the new one. Has that sporty look, a spare tire on each side. You know what they say, ‘Ask the man who owns one.’ I bet a dollar it’s Jack Belmont’s, but I ain’t asking him nothing.”

  One of the Wycliffs said, “We gonna ride off in the Packard?”

  Nestor said, “Hell no, we gonna bust in the house with it.”

  He had all three of the boys grinning at him now.

  Jack Belmont wondered what they were waiting for, standing around in the semidark, Heidi next to him reloading his guns and placing them on the bar. The other girls were upstairs, the bartenders watching over them, and seeing what they could see from the windows.

  “You want to tell me what we’re doing?”

  Speaking to Carl at the front entrance with the two bouncers, Carl holding one of the doors open, waiting for James to appear out of the mist. H
e said to Jack, “It’s Nestor’s call.”

  Jack held up his pocket watch trying to catch some light from the windows. “I can’t even read my goddamn watch. He don’t come pretty soon, I’m leaving. We aren’t doing any business, those dead fools lying in the yard. I mean it, he don’t start something, I quit. Come back when the sun’s out.”

  Carl said, “You’re going to Tulsa with me. You and that two-gun midget, if I can work it.”

  “You gonna arrest me? For what?” Like he couldn’t believe it.

  “There’s seven people lying dead outside.”

  “Jesus Christ, what’re you talking about—they’re gonna burn down my place I didn’t stop ’em. You saw ’em, with their goddamn torches?” Sounding a bit frantic and had to calm himself down. Trying to think of a way to do Norm—counting on Nestor starting a gunfight to give him the chance—and now the goddamn marshal wanted to arrest him. Saying if he could work it. Telling him that. He glanced at Norm sitting on the stairs with his Winchester now across his knees. Then turned to Carl at the front door.

  Carl pushing it open and Jack saw the colored boy, James, come in with his old-fashioned Colt pistol, hair lying flat on his head, his body glistening wet. Jack watched James give Carl a nod and now the two of them were walking past him, going to the kitchen.

  Jack followed behind saying, “You hear what I said? They’re coming after me, with no right to do it’s why I shot ’em. You know that.”

  The marshal didn’t comment on it.

  In the kitchen James laid his pistol on the counter by the window where Franklin handed him a dish towel. James dried his face before looking up at Carl. “I see these two come in the thicket from the lot, like they been up to the house.”

  Franklin was shaking his head. “I’d of seen ’em.”

  “Now the other two come out of the shed,” James said, “and they all behind it, the little fella with the pistolas on him asking the two questions. I can’t hear what they saying, but the little fella, he seem pleased by what they told him.”

  Franklin said it again, “They came up to the house I’d of seen ’em.”

  “Or they were looking at the cars,” Carl said, “see who might’ve left a key.”

  Jack got on that saying, “Nobody works here leaves a key in their car. You can’t trust our patrons. They leave here drunk, with drunk intentions. The only one might’ve been the True Detective writer.” Jack looked around. “Where is he?”

  “He’s upstairs,” Norm said. “I ’magine talking to Elodie. He was asking me about her—can’t believe that nice-looking girl’s a whore. I said give her three bucks and see what she does for you.” Norm stood in the doorway to the main room, turning his head to look at Heidi now, in there at the bar. Norm said to her, “How much he give you for loading his gun?” Now he turned and was looking at Jack Belmont in the kitchen.

  Norm giving him a hard stare.

  It told Jack his old buddy’d had enough of his fooling with Heidi and meant to do something about it. For a few seconds Jack thought of staring back at him, get it out in the open between them, but caught himself in time. Where was the advantage in doing that? No, Jack grinned like he’d thought of something and turned to Franklin at the window.

  “Franklin? You hear the one, the woman of the house asks her colored girl Dinah if her husband is a good provider? Dinah says, ‘Yessum, he’s a good providah, all right, but I’se always scared dat niggah’s gwine get caught at it.’”

  Jack was still grinning, waiting for Franklin to laugh.

  Franklin nodded, looking like he was trying to smile. But now his gaze moved to the window again, Franklin saying, “They at the cars,” his voice raised. “Sneaked up, getting in the one in the middle, the Packard. Backing out, behind the other cars now.”

  Carl, with him at the window, picked up the navy Colt from the counter, telling Franklin to fire through the windows of the cars in front, and they both began firing, not knowing if they were hitting the Packard or the ones in it. They paused and could hear the car’s engine being throttled up, running high, and now they saw the black shape in the clear, streaking through the mist toward the trees on the far side of the lot and the drive that curved in from the road. But now it was slowing, starting to make a wide turn through the lot, churning up mud as the black Packard swung around to head toward the front of the roadhouse.

  Son, at the wheel, began to brake coming on to the bodies lying in the empty parking lot. It turned Nestor from the windshield as the car came to a stop.

  “What’re you doing?” The man excited and showing it. “Roll over ’em, for Christ sake. They aren’t gonna be any deader.”

  Son couldn’t do it. He looked at the rearview mirror and told the Wycliff brothers to get out and pull the bodies out of the way, Nestor yelling at him, “Goddamn it, go on. You aren’t gonna hit ’em all.” Son shook his head. This time he turned to the Wycliffs in the backseat and told them to hurry up and get to it, drag ’em out of the way. The brothers felt the same as Son about running over the bodies. They hopped out of the car and started pulling them by the arms back toward the cars standing on the road.

  Nestor, watching through the windshield, quieter now, said, “You’re giving ’em time to get ready for us.”

  Carl told Jack and the bouncers, Walter and Boo, to get down behind the bar and wait till he saw what was going to happen. He expected an argument from Jack he wouldn’t have time for, and when Jack asked him where he’d be, Carl didn’t answer. He told Norm and Heidi to run upstairs and get the bartenders and wait up there in the hall.

  “Don’t show yourselves or come out to the stairs till somebody starts shooting.”

  Jack said to him again, “Where you gonna be?”

  Carl said, “I want a word with this Nestor.”

  Son saw a clear fifty feet ahead of him now, plenty of room to make his turn and head directly for that big wooden front. The Wycliffs would come running behind the Packard with their rifles. Son gunned the motor, pressed down hard on the gas pedal and swerved toward the doors, Nestor yelling at him to “Bust through, bust ’em down!” and Son drove that Packard through the entrance, banging the doors off their hinges, pieces of lumber bouncing off the hood, smashing the windshield, a fragment coming past him like a spear, but they were inside, Nestor hanging on, his jaw clenched, and Son braked and plowed into tables and chairs that put Nestor up against the dashboard, the Packard plowing furniture to wedge it against a post in the middle of the room. Son turned his head to see a man in a suit and panama hat watching him from behind the bar, the guy standing there like he was the only one in the place.

  Upstairs, Tony Antonelli heard the car smash through the front doors, heard the howl of the engine and knew what was happening down below. He had to stick his shirttail back in his pants and pull up his suspenders looking at Elodie on the bed in only a pair of lace panties, God Almighty, her ninnies pointing straight at him, her expression scared to death. He said, “Stay here, I’ll come back to get you,” and ran out of the room and down the hall past the bartenders reaching out too late to stop him. He had to pull his arm away from Heidi grabbing on to him and saw Norm waving at him from the other side of the hall to get back.

  But Tony was at the top of the stairway now looking down at the Packard and the smashed furniture, and realized, damn it, he’d left his notepad in the bedroom.

  He saw Carl Webster behind the bar facing Son getting out from behind the wheel, with a rifle, and now the Wycliff brothers were coming up on the driver’s side of the car, both holding rifles he believed were Springfields. Tony judging the distance between the three locals and Carl Webster less than thirty feet.

  He saw Nestor Lott come out of the front passenger side and move up to face Carl from across the car’s hood. This was the tableau Tony committed to his memory, looking down not quite directly at the front of the Packard, but more to Nestor’s side of the car. From this angle he could see Nestor holding a .45 automatic in each hand, be
low the level of the hood, close to the spare tire mounted there.

  Carl, behind the bar, arms hanging at his sides—Tony thinking of the way he would write it—with a relaxed demeanor, would not see that Nestor was ready to shoot. Tony thinking he should yell out, but not wanting to involve himself, hesitating…

  And Carl Webster got his attention.

  Carl saying, “Am I speaking to Nestor Lott?”

  “’Course you are,” Nestor said. “Don’t confuse me with these sharecroppers holding rifles on you. Where’s everybody? I want to know who killed my boys. And where you stole that Thompson.”

  “I’m Deputy United States Marshal Carl Webster,” Carl said. “I’m placing you under arrest for impersonating a federal officer. Wearing that badge like you deserve it.”

  “You see what else I got on my chest?”

  “That medal,” Carl said, “don’t mean a thing to me.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Nestor said. “Boy, you’re on the wrong side of this shenanigan, working for the whiskey people. You ought to be over here with me.”

  “I’ve told you,” Carl said, “you’re under arrest. My partner has the warrant.”

  Tony watched Carl turn his head to the three locals with their army rifles. Carl said to them, “You people can go or stay. You stay, I’ll arrest you for helping this monkey break the law. Which is it gonna be?”

  Son and the Wycliff brothers didn’t stir, their rifles pointing at the bar, Tony would bet, waiting for Nestor to give the word. He heard Carl tell them, “Put down your guns.”

  The locals still didn’t move, covering the marshal with their Spring-fields. Tony would remember the marshal standing with his arms at his sides, his demeanor relaxed as he looked at sudden death staring him in the face. Now Nestor was saying, “Call your people out. They upstairs? I want to see what we have here.” Tony would write: No one moved. All waiting for Nestor’s deadly signal, firing the first shot.

  But now Carl said to Nestor, “Let me see your hands. Lay ’em on the hood there.”