The Hot Kid

by Elmore Leonard

  Sunday afternoon the four of them got in Virgil’s car to go to the show in Okmulgee. Virgil had said he’d bought the ’31 Nash because he liked the upholstery’s floral design, shades of rose and green on the beige fabric; it was like driving around in your home. The reason they took Virgil’s car—Narcissa in front with a big paper sack of popcorn on her lap, Carl and Louly in back—was in case Belmont knew Carl was driving a Chevy now and was out on the road waiting for it to come along.

  Going east toward Okmulgee Virgil’s gaze went to the rearview mirror and fixed on it. He said, “Oh, my God, look behind us.” And got the others to look around at the solid mass of dust moving across the sky from the south, a heavy yellow-brown curtain closing off the horizon. Carl said it was getting worse; he’d only seen dust storms like this out in the panhandle. Louly took his arm and Carl told her it was way over in Oklahoma City; it wasn’t going to catch them. Virgil said farmers kept plowing through droughts; nothing grew, and with the ground cover plowed over there was nothing to hold the topsoil. Winds would come up off the plains and blow away farmland. He said, “Around Guthrie they’re shooting cattle that’re starving, dying of thirst.” They didn’t talk much with the dust behind them, miles and miles off but they could feel it, living on the edge of the Dust Bowl.

  Carl said, going in the Orpheum, “I hope this is a funny movie.”

  Manhattan Melodrama.

  Clark Gable is Blackie. William Powell is Jim. Myrna Loy is Eleanor. They said Myrna Loy was one of Dillinger’s favorites. Muriel Evans is Tootsie, the platinum blonde, and she ain’t bad. Blackie loses Eleanor to Jim, because Jim’s such a swell guy. But it’s okay with Blackie because he and Jim were boyhood pals and are still close friends, even though they’re on opposite sides of the law, Blackie a gangster and Jim a prosecuting attorney and finally the governor. Blackie bumps off Jim’s assistant, a snake who has evidence that would keep Jim from winning the governor’s seat. Blackie is tried and convicted, sentenced to die in the electric chair. Jim, now the governor, could commute his sentence to life, but won’t because he lives by the letter of the law. Evelyn tells Jim if Blackie hadn’t plugged his assistant in the men’s room at Madison Square Garden, witnessed by a blind beggar, he wouldn’t of been elected governor. Jim still won’t budge. Evelyn can’t believe he won’t help his friend. She leaves Jim, unable to continue being his wife. At the last moment Jim gives in, commutes Blackie’s sentence to life. But Blackie won’t accept it. If he doesn’t go to the chair, Jim will have to resign his office. Blackie goes to the chair, Carl thinking during the scene, They’re going to muss his slick hair with the metal skullcap, that part that looks like it was cut into his scalp. Carl only used a little water. He’d lost interest knowing what was going to happen. There was a good scene of Jim and Evelyn getting back together, out in the hall. Carl felt his eyes dew-up just a little. That Myrna Loy was all right.

  On the trip home Virgil said, “You believe a guy sentenced to die would turn down getting off?”

  “Uh-unh,” Carl said. “Except Blackie said he’d rather fry than spend the rest of his life inside. That could be.”

  Virgil said, “I wanted to see more of Tootsie. I saw her in some westerns, Muriel…Something.”

  “Evans,” Carl said.

  They all thought the plot was okay, even if it wasn’t believable, since it was a movie.

  “You notice,” Carl said, “how Blackie jabbed the gun as he fired it? That jabbing doesn’t help any.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” Narcissa said. “That boat, the big excursion boat catching fire, the two boys become orphans and live together a while? It was Irish families on the boat in the movie. It was in 1906 and it’s true, it happened in the East River of New York. But it was Germans it happened to, not Irish people. I read about it.”

  It wasn’t six o’clock yet, the sun still beating down when they got home. Narcissa went in the house to cut up chickens. Sunday dinner was always fried chicken. Louly went in to use the bathroom. Carl stood on the porch with his dad while Virgil explained Roosevelt’s Farm Mortgage Act, how it helped farmers stay out of the hands of the banks. Virgil kept up with what the New Deal was doing for farmers and Carl felt obliged to be patient and listen. Virgil was getting into the Farm Bankruptcy Act and Narcissa stepped out on the porch.

  She said, “Virgil?” and waited while he finished what he was saying to Carl.

  “What is it?”

  “Somebody broke in the house.”

  Carl first thought, A hundred thousand stolen while we’re at the show. He expected his dad to have a fit.

  Virgil said, “They take anything?”

  “They pulled stuff out of drawers. Tore pictures from the wall.”

  “Looking for a safe,” Virgil said. “Why would they think a pe-can farmer would have a safe?”

  “Outside of you being a millionaire pe-can farmer.”

  Louly came banging through the screen.

  “Somebody wrecked the bedrooms looking for something.”

  Virgil said, “You know this is the first time I’ve been broken into since we built the house?” He turned to Carl. “How old were you?”

  “Four,” Carl said.

  “That’s twenty-four years ago, give or take. I use to tell these pe-can crew guys I’d pick up every year? You bust in my house, I won’t hesitate to shoot you. The newspaper guys would ask what I do with my money and I’d notice my tree shakers listening in.”

  “Aren’t you gonna look,” Carl said, “see what was taken?”

  “Right now,” Virgil said.

  “What about that money you kept in the house? You told me one time a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “This past winter I put it in the Okmulgee bank. Oris Belmont, one of the owners, asked if I’d be on the board. I ever tell you that?”

  “Oris did,” Carl said.

  “He seemed like a guy knew what he was doing,” Virgil said. “I thought hell, let him hold it. The bank’s close enough I ever need it in a hurry.”

  They went inside to look around. The first thing they noticed, the shotgun was missing from the gun cabinet.

  Louly said to Carl, “You think it was Jack?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Twenty-four years the house is never broken into, till Jack Belmont comes along.”

  “If it was Jack,” Louly said, “you think it’s funny his dad’s holding Virgil’s money?”

  23

  That Sunday morning Walter saw this works as the place to make their camp: the pumps shut down, nobody around the derricks. They pulled casings and drilling tools out of a good-size shed and put the Cadillac inside early that morning. Later on they crept through the pecan groves and found a good place to lie hidden and watch the house.

  Jack’s idea was to slip up on Carl—say while he was on the porch with his dad—coming around from the side of the house. Surprise him with, “If I have to pull my weapon I’ll shoot to kill.” See how he liked it. Pull the .45 and shoot him. Then put the gun on the dad and tell him to bring out the money or he gets one in the head. “Then we don’t have to spend time looking for it,” Carl said to Walter. “The old man hands it to us and we get out of here.”

  “You want to shoot that marshal,” Walter said, “do it some other time. I was only in a shoot-out once in my life and I pissed my pants. I saw that marshal knock off four armed men in less than five seconds. You know the best time to shoot him?”

  He waited, making Jack ask, “When?”

  “When he’s in bed sleeping. There was an outlaw this posse was so afraid of, that’s what they did, waited for him to go to sleep and shot him through the window. You ever hear of that?”

  Finally in the afternoon they watched Virgil bring his Nash around to where the others were coming out on the porch and down the steps, Carl and Louly and another woman.

  “There he is,” Walter said. “What’re you waiting on?”

  “How’m I gonna hit him from here with a forty-fi
ve?”

  “Whyn’t you bring a rifle?”

  “’Cause I want to use this.”

  “Move in closer.”

  He could sneak up to the edge of the grove, the one facing the house, he’d still be fifty or sixty yards from the car. It would take a lucky shot to hit Carl with a pistol. Jack had talked himself into using his .45, so he could recite Carl’s famous line.

  They watched the party drive off in that Nash done up in floral upholstery. Jack recognized the car; he’d stolen that model for a job and felt like a fairy driving around in it.

  They were on their feet now, Walter with his arms crossed, hands resting on his biceps that were like footballs stuffed in his sleeves.

  “We going in?”

  “I told you how we’re doing it. Shoot Carl and put the gun on the dad.”

  “Then he tells the police who you are.”

  “You want, I’ll shoot the dad too.”

  “And the girlfriend and that other woman?”

  “We don’t know where they went,” Jack said, “or when they’ll be home. We don’t want to be in the house and get surprised.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Walter said, “we got a good two hours. You saw Carl reach in the paper sack the woman had? He got himself some popcorn and she slapped his hand? Sunday afternoon, they went to the show. Let’s quit fuckin’ around and get to it.”

  They broke a pane in the kitchen door to enter the house; crept through rooms till they knew for certain some old granny hadn’t been left behind, no radio playing, and they went to work. They looked everywhere you could hide a sizeable amount of cash and places where you couldn’t, attic to root cellar and in the kitchen, Jack saying he’d kept loot in a Quaker Oats box.

  In a desk drawer in the living room they came across $480 rolled up in a rubber band and some silver.

  Walter said, “This Creek that told you about the money—”

  “My cell mate,” Jack said. “He worked here and heard about it. Said he’s coming back soon as he gets out.”

  “Said they’d be thousands of dollars?”

  “How much would a millionaire put away?”

  “I don’t know. Four hundred and eighty dollars? I don’t know who’s dumber,” Walter said, “me or you. My excuse—a man drives up in a Cadillac V-twelve you think he’s got a pretty fair idea he knows what he’s talking about. Who do you listen to? Some Creek drinks that hooch they make outta tomatoes. God damn but it smells.”

  “Let’s think of places we might’ve missed,” Jack said. “Like under the house.”

  “There isn’t no under-the-house under there,” Walter said. “I’m going back to the camp, I’m hungry.”

  They brought a bottle of whiskey with them, a case of Falstaff beer Walter put on his shoulder, the Remington shotgun from the gun cabinet—Walter liked it—and a chicken he said he’d cook on a spit. It came to Jack too late he should’ve taken that Winchester. He didn’t think the shotgun would do him any good.

  What came to annoy Jack was watching Walter cook the chicken like they were camping out. He’d made a fire, got it going good with extra kindling to throw on, pushed a three-foot stick through the chicken and sat down on the ground to hold it over the fire.

  And kept holding it, his arm extended, rigid, locked in that position. After about ten minutes or so, Jack watched him switch the stick to his left hand and waited for Walter to flex his right arm, work the stiffness out. No, he laid the arm in his lap to rest, staring into the fire.

  Jack had taken a gulp of whiskey when they got back, a couple ounces worth, and took another good one now, Jack sitting on the case of beer somewhat behind Walter but more to his left. When Walter wanted a beer Jack would have to get up and hand him one. They had forgot to bring a bottle opener from the house, so Walter had to pry the cap off with his teeth, hook the bottle in the side of his bite and yank up on it. Usually it took a few tries.

  Walter had his hat off now. Jack stared at his head that reminded him of a block of wood: Walter at his campfire turning the chicken every few minutes from one side to the other, the bird taking on color. Thanksgiving, Jack’s dad had always called the turkey “the bird.”

  Jack said, “There’s no money put away in that house.”

  Walter said to the chicken, “You just realize that?”

  “I should be waiting for that Creek when he gets his release—”

  “Yeah…?”

  “And hit him in the mouth with a hammer.”

  “The claw side,” Walter said to the chicken.

  Jack took another swig of whiskey. He was disappointed, sure, but there was still the shooting of Carlos Webster to think about. Do that first. Wait for the chance to walk up and pop him.

  Then get his mom’s car washed and take it back.

  No, take it to Old Mexico and sell it to some rich chilipicker. And then rob him. What he’d plan to do with Teddy’s La Salle.

  Come back to Tulsa and hold up the Exchange National Bank. It had a different name now he couldn’t think of.

  Get some guys first. The Jack Belmont gang.

  Walter?

  Walter was a camper. And a chef, but he didn’t need Walter. The chicken was about done, done enough. Give it a few more minutes.

  Jack brought his .45 automatic out of his waist from against the small of his back. Walter looked over. Jack pulled out his shirttail and began wiping the gun, concentrating on it, busy, Walter watching him.

  If he shot Walter in the head from here, Walter and the chicken could both fall in the campfire. How would he save the chicken? Jack got up and moved to the other side of the fire to face Walter, Walter watching him sit down and continue wiping down the gun. Shot from here Walter would fall back, punched by the .45 slug, taking the chicken with him or dropping it in the fire. Walter had finished off four bottles of Falstaff while he cooked the bird, spitting some blood after opening the last bottle.

  He said, “What’re you cleaning the gun for? You gonna go shoot him, wait till after we eat. It’s done if you like it pink inside.”

  Jack said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “How personal?”

  “Do you mind being a big Schitter?” Jack grinned. “I mean a big Schitter-er?” and laughed out loud at the dumb look on Walter’s face. Jack brought the .45 out of his shirttail and shot Walter in the middle of his forehead, lunged for the chicken but missed, Walter’s iron grip on the stick taking it with him as he fell flat on his back, the bird landing on his legs.

  Jack used Walter’s teeth as a beer opener and broke off a couple of molars before he got the cap off. He took the bottle of beer, the chicken, the Remington and at the last second what the hell the bottle of whiskey, back through the pecan groves to the spot with the view of the house.

  By the time the Nash returned with the moviegoers Jack had finished his meal, had a swig of bourbon and smoked a couple of cigarets. He’d bet $480 they saw Manhattan Melodrama, noticing it on the Orpheum marquee this morning, he and Walter coming through town. Now the good part:

  Watching Louly and the other woman go in the house while Carl and his old man stayed on the porch talking. Damn, he wished now he’d brought a rifle. Or taken the Winchester in the gun cabinet. The woman came out in a hurry, but wasn’t anxious to interrupt Carl’s dad. Finally gets his attention, tells him they’d been robbed. Now Louly comes out and they’re all talking, but no one’s too excited. No, what’d they lose, a case of beer, a chicken…Now they were all going inside.

  He wondered if he should’ve tried the shotgun? But if it was too far to do any good they’d know where he was and he’d be out of business—unless it drew Carl into the trees.

  Not an hour later a car came up the drive to the porch, a Ford, one he recognized. He ought to, he’d stolen it twice.

  They were inside straightening up. Carl told about the break-in while they were at the show, Louly sounding sure it was Jack. “He came looking for Carl and took a case of beer, a shotgun and a chi
cken.”

  Tony said, “How do you know it was Jack?”

  “He called the marshals,” Carl said, “to locate me and they told him I was here.”

  “How did they know it was Jack?”

  “Evelyn told everybody that called where I was and recorded it. They all identified themselves but Jack. I listened and recognized his voice.”

  “So he’ll try to sneak up on you,” Tony said, “and you’re not supposed to know he’s here. What if he has a gang with him?”

  “They only took one chicken out of the icebox,” Carl said, “Narcissa hadn’t cut up yet. But can you see Jack cooking it, like he’s camping out?”

  Tony looked off through the open doorway toward the pecan grove, the one closest to the house, beyond the cleared area where the drive came in, his car standing with its front end at the porch.

  He said, “I better move my car.”

  Carl said, “Take the key out this time.”

  Tony left his Ford around by the garage. He came back to the porch, most of it in deep shade. He saw Carl at a window and heard Virgil coming in the front room saying, “The son of a bitch—I hadn’t noticed—took a bottle of bourbon.”

  Carl said, “I hope he drinks it before he starts something.”

  Tony came inside. He said to Virgil, “You haven’t done your harvest yet, have you?”

  “We have one it’ll be going on Christmas, and that’s if it rains. We had drought, spring through summer, as bad as I’ve seen.”

  “But Jack could be hiding in there, waiting for a shot?”

  “In there with the squirrels and the crows, all of ’em eating pe-cans dried up and dropped from the trees. That grove facing the house, you can see is denser than the rest? Those are old babies, the first ones I planted. See, then I learned these trees need sunshine and space for it. I started out I must’ve planted forty, fifty trees to the acre instead of twenty to thirty. That’s how come those trees across the drive you can’t even see through ’em, and they’re sort of in rows. I have to get Preston Raincrow in there, clear out the brush, but I have to wait for him to get over his heat prostration. I said to him, I never heard of a Cherokee getting heat prostration. Preston’s Narcissa’s daddy. Some of my groves have as few as ten trees the acre. They’re up eighty to a hunnert feet and aren’t as ugly as these here, all gnarly.”