The other side of the card bore a Moab postmark dated November 27, 1963, and a six-cent stamp. The message was brief, hastily scrawled:
Dear L – Don’t worry, everything’s going to be OK. Home by Sat. See you soon. Your loving dad, C.
It was addressed to 274 Sunshine Terrace, North Hollywood, California. The addressee was Miss Lynnie Callan, c/o Mrs. Emily Callan.
TWELVE
1963
Thursday, November 21st
The Longhorn Lodge was a one-story affair built around a swimming pool, currently drained for the winter. Like the other rooms, the sliding glass door of number 18 opened onto the pool area. A few minutes after Marjorie and Joe Bob drove away, presumably to get some supper, Charlie picked the lock and let himself into their room. A couple of quick twists with his needlenose pliers crimped the draw-drape track so it would bind about six inches short of closing. He then returned to his car, ate the turkey on wheat he’d purchased earlier.
Charlie positioned himself on the far side, adjacent to a utility room, in a shadowy recess he’d made darker by loosening the bulbs of the exterior sconces. He had a clear view across the pool – through that narrow opening in the drapes of Room 18 – directly to their bed. Better, he could see and/or hear any foot traffic in or out of the quadrangle. He judged that something less than a third of the rooms were occupied.
Hey. In the middle of goddam Texas in November? And most of them are probably locals cheating on their spouses.
There was a low, muffled cacophony of music and voices from TV’s and radios. Also some occasional faint laughter, some of which Charlie figured was live. He pictured himself with Dorothy, sharing giggles while they made love. His watch indicated 10:47 PM. Quiet.
Jesus, that must be some dinner they’re having. Or – shit – they were onto me and set me up.
Then the light from the curtain-gap in Room 18 suddenly changed. Movement inside. Charlie raised the camera to his eye. Marjorie appeared, facing the dark courtyard, trying to pull the curtains together. Then Joe Bob displaced her, looked up, saw that the track was jammed, gave a to-hell-with-it shrug and grabbed her by the hips. Through the narrow space Charlie watched Marjorie remove her blouse. And then the couple disappeared from his viewfinder. He lowered his camera, smiled with anticipation. Time to make his move.
Charlie started to come out of the recess – and froze. Footsteps to his left. Voices, too. A man and a woman emerging from one of the rooms, speaking in low, casual tones. Moving toward him. Charlie quickly scrunched into the shadowy, shallow utility-room doorway. He heard the man’s cowboy boots and her stiletto heels and their intimate murmurs. They walked slowly, laughing at some private, probably post-coital joke. And stopped at the alcove. Close enough that Charlie could reach out and touch the man. All he could think of was what must be happening in Room 18 that he wasn’t getting on film.
Sweet Jesus, willya c’mon?
The woman laughed. Soft. Husky. The fellow kissed her. Groped her.
Oh man...
Finally, holding hands they resumed walking – past the pool and out into the parking lot. Charlie anxiously looked through the camera, found the narrow opening in the curtains. It took him a beat or two to decipher which body parts he was looking at.
Bingo. Joe Bob’s bare ass and one of Marjorie’s thighs.
Charlie peeked out, made a brief sweep of the area, dashed around the pool. Boots-and-heels’ car started up, drove off as Charlie flattened himself against the wall just outside the couple’s room. Still nobody around. He quickly exchanged the long lens for his 105 mm., gulped some air – then cautiously peered in through the curtain-gap.
And figured he’d died and gone to heaven. There it was. The whole fifteen thousand dollars’ worth. Marjorie Brodax and Joe Bob Millgrim buck naked, engaged in sex so enthusiastic, so acrobatic that even Charlie was impressed. Their moans and the sound of the TV more than overrode the camera’s kerchunk-ratchet-kerchunk-ratchet-kerchunk as Charlie ran off shot after shot. Marjorie on top. Kerchunk-ratchet-kerchunk. Him doing her. Her doing him. Then Joe Bob back on top. It was like the shutter-release was a cash-register button.
Until the scene suddenly turned – from erotic to ugly. Joe Bob slapped Marjorie. And again. She protested, twisted out from under him, clambered off the bed. Joe Bob pursued her. Charlie had to keep shifting his position to keep them in view. Joe Bob cornered her. He called her a fucking slut, then hit her. Hard. With his fist. Angry-vicious-hard.
“No. Please.” She recoiled in terror, blood at the corner of her mouth.
Charlie looked off across the pool.
Uh-uh. Forget it, Callan. This is Marjorie’s problem. You’ve got everything you came to Texas for. Took that goddam beating for. Walk away from it.
The sounds. It was getting worse.
Ohchrist...
Reluctantly he looked into the room. Joe Bob pummeled her, chased her out of sight, then back into Charlie’s limited view. Marjorie hurled something – a lamp was it? The cowboy retaliated with new fury.
Charlie, c’mon. Do not be a schmuck. This is not your fight. You’ve earned your money. You can go home.
The sounds. Fists impacting flesh. Groans. Yips of pain. Charlie tried to make the picture go away. It wouldn’t. Before having his next thought he was depositing his camera and the long lens behind the potted plant at his side – and yanking on the door-handle. Locked. From inside, more muffled grunts, cries. Flesh smashing into hard surfaces. Using his foot for leverage Charlie broke the latch, yanked the door open.
Bizarre. The room was well on its way to totaled. Chairs, lamp, tables overturned, bedding ripped. And these two naked bloody people, frozen in mid-battle, Joe Bob’s fist poised to pound a cringing, terrified Marjorie. Both were staring at Charlie, who slid the door shut behind him, his .38 leveled at Joe Bob.
And found himself riveted by the man’s penis.
Dinky – and purple – and bright red? Jesus---
“Charlie. Oh thank god.”
Oh, right. Blood. He’s bleeding from his dick?
“You’re that fuckin’ snoop?” Joe Bob made a tiny threatening move.
Charlie quickly adjusted his aim, pointing the gun at Joe Bob’s genitals. “Move, you piece of shit, and your wang’s gonna be a memory. Marjorie, get some clothes on and get your ass outa here before this creep kills you.”
“Shee-it, pilgrim – Marjie ain’t goin’ nowhere. She loves me. Don’tcha, baby.”
Charlie remained locked on Joe Bob, who had obviously seen too many John Wayne movies – but peripherally he saw Marjorie standing very still, partially covered with a bedsheet, chewing her lip. “Marjorie...?” Charlie couldn’t believe it. “Ohforchrissake. Look. Make up your goddam mind. Fast.”
Marjorie took an indecisive half-step toward the bathroom – and tripped on an overturned chair.
Which distracted Charlie. Nearly imperceptibly – but enough for Joe Bob to kick the pistol away. And then the cowboy was all over him. Punching, kneeing. It was like Joe Bob’s asshole pal in Reno had filled him in on which of Charlie’s ribs to go for. Charlie fought desperately, but he was no match for the bigger, stronger man.
Marjorie screamed. “Joe Bob, no – stop!”
Charlie was on his back, the cowboy straddling him, squeezing his neck with both powerful hands.
“Joe Bob, forgodsake.” Marjorie tugged at one of his arms. The cowboy yanked free of her grip and caught the side of her head with a nasty backhand, then returned to job one, finishing off Charlie.
Charlie struggled, clawed at the hands, at Joe Bob’s face, but he was growing weaker, gasping as he felt his throat close.
I’m gonna fucking die. Because I couldn’t mind my own goddam business. That’s what they’re gonna put on my gravestone. Charles Callan, PUTZ.
Then for some reason he pictured Joe Bob’s naked asshole on the front of his pants. He wondered if he’d have to get them cleaned – if it would leave a brown stain.
&nb
sp; Jesusgod, the sonofabitch is killing me and that’s what I’m thinking about?
What seemed to be a woman’s voice superimposed itself across Charlie’s fuzzed logic.
“I mean it, damn you – stop or - or I’ll shoot!”
Which apparently got Joe Bob’s attention. Through blurry eyes, Charlie saw him look off.
And into Charlie’s .38, which a shaky Marjorie was aiming at the cowboy’s face.
Joe Bob sneered, defiant. “Shut your fucking dumb cunt mouth and gimme that.”
Marjorie spoke slowly. “What - did - you - say?”
The voices were distant, fading in, then out. Charlie stopped resisting, vaguely perceived that Joe Bob had crossed a line.
“I said gimme the gun.”
Charlie dimly heard the sound. He couldn’t - quite - identify it. But he was aware that the grip on his throat had loosened. And then Joe Bob’s face fell onto Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie took as deep a breath as his crushed windpipe permitted. And opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was too near to focus on. Then he decided it must be an ear. And red stuff. Charlie’s face felt warm and wet. The red stuff was running out of Joe Bob’s ear, down Charlie’s face and inside his shirt-collar.
He labored to make the connection. Blood? There? Why?
“Ogod Charlie ogod...”
Past Joe Bob’s ear, Charlie saw Marjorie clutching the sheet in one hand and what appeared to be his weapon in the other. A trickle of smoke wafted out of the short barrel. She seemed to be hyperventilating. He wondered why the sheet covered only one of her tits.
“Charlie...? Ogod are you...? Ogod...”
He took another breath. Deeper. It hurt, but things were coming together. The pounding on the front door – the one that faced the parking area – sped the process.
“This is the Manager. What’s goin’ on in there?”
Charlie struggled out from beneath Joe Bob’s body. “In - in a minute. I’ll be right there.” He rose unsteadily, grabbed a chair-arm for support, gestured for Marjorie to go into the bathroom, whispered: “Get me a towel. A big one.” He grabbed the bedspread, quickly threw it over Joe Bob’s body, hissed over his shoulder. “And turn on the shower.” He located the TV remote, muted the volume. Then he caught the bath towel she tossed at him, glanced at himself in the mirror. The bloody shirt would definitely not do. Charlie tried to ignore the movement-induced ache as he ripped it off, tossed it in a corner. He wrapped the towel around his head and across his torso so that it mostly concealed the blood. Enroute to the door he turned off the bed lamp, took a final look around; the flickery light cast by the TV seemed dim enough to conceal the wreckage.
Here’s hoping this guy wasn’t on duty when they checked in – or if he was, he doesn’t remember what that shitheel looked like.
Charlie opened the door a tiny crack, pretending to dry his hair. And held a shushing finger to his lips.
The Manager was graying, bleary-eyed. And agitated. “What’re---?” He lowered his voice. “What’re you people doin’ in there---?”
“Sorry about that. I - I was in the shower and my wife, I guess she fell asleep and rolled over on the youknow the TV clicker. I came out and the damn set was blaring. Some shoot’em-up show.”
The Manager tried to peer in past him. Charlie shifted slightly to block his view. “Excuse me? She uh sleeps in the nude.”
“That blood on your towel?”
“Shaving.”
The Manager regarded Charlie for a skeptical beat, then: “Okay, mister – but anymore complaints I’m callin’ the police.”
In his rear-view mirror, Charlie confirmed that Marjorie was still following in the Chevvie. He mentally re-traced the route he’d plotted before they left the motel. East out of Big Spring, then south on 821. Moderate speed. Full stop at stop signs. Nothing that might attract a patrol car. The bridge should be coming up anytime now.
The first few minutes after he’d gotten rid of the Manager were the most difficult. Marjorie came out of the bathroom in bra and panties, tended to his bruises and scrapes with a damp washcloth, all the while carrying on near hysteria, certain they’d both be executed for murder or be fugitives for the rest of their lives till they were hunted down and brutally revenge-killed by Joe Bob’s relatives or... That kind of thing, all of it annoying-to-infuriating, making it even more difficult for him to concentrate.
What else Charlie had to avoid facing was his own gloom about the potential – hell, probable – fallout. Not easy. It was depressing enough that he was almost surely out the fifteen grand. Even worse he vividly understood that unless all of his moves from here on were absolutely right, he was looking at serious slam-time. Worse still, in a Texas prison forgodsake. Sure, Marjorie pulled the trigger, but it was Charlie’s gun. And despite whatever case the two of them might try to make about provocation and self-defense, he knew that between the beatings Joe Bob inflicted on both, plus the one Charlie endured back in Reno, and the damage done to his car, even the most inept prosecutor could easily show ample motive and obvious means. Plus, the decedent was a native.
First degree and then some.
Not that it was all bad. At least the prick was dead.
“Charlie, c’mon – can’t we just youknow get out of here?”
“No.”
“No?”
“People saw you with him. The manager can describe me. We’ve gotta buy some time.”
She sighed. “How?”
“It starts with getting rid of your buddy here. The rest of it I’ll let you know when it comes to me.”
Marjorie had to close her eyes as she helped Charlie roll Joe Bob’s corpse in the mattress-pad, twitting her nonstop litany about the mistake she’d made running off with him, how even if they got away with this her life was ruined. “I should’ve put some of that money aside – that Stan youknow laid on me for a wedding present – I’d never have to worry again...” She cupped her breasts, regarded them ruefully. “I mean god let’s face it, a year, maybe two and these’re gonna be youknow down around my knees---”
“Jesus, Marjorie, could we do this later?”
“Okayokay.” She began to get dressed.
Charlie surveyed the mess. There was blood everywhere. He saw that she was having trouble buttoning her skirt; her hands were trembling. “Here...”
Moments later he stealthily guided her across the pool area to the utility room. She remained on the edge of panic, but at least able to follow his instructions. He picked the lock, piled towels and bedding in her arms, grabbed a load for himself, to which he added a mop, bucket and cleaning solvent.
Back in Room 18 Charlie’s pragmatism and Marjorie’s concentration on scrubbing and cleaning – and not looking at the corpse on the floor – had a somewhat calming effect on her. When they’d done as well as they could, he quickly showered and, after convincing her he wasn’t running out on her, that he’d be back in five minutes, put on the late Joe Bob’s Levi jumper, his Stetson, and went out to retrieve his car from behind the laundromat down the road. He parked it alongside Joe Bob’s pickup in the motel parking lot, hurried to the room with his own suitcase, recovering his camera and lens enroute.
It was nearly 3 AM when Charlie, in fresh clothes, hoisted Joe Bob Millgrim’s still-wrapped corpse onto his shoulder, and with the massively insecure Marjorie at his side, stealthily schlepped it past the motel pool, into the parking area. They slid his body onto the bed of the pickup, covered it with a tarp. Then, because Marjorie refused to be left alone again, especially not with the dead man, they both returned to the room, retrieved the mop, bucket, Joe Bob’s Snakeskin boots and hat, and the bundle of blood-soaked linens and clothing they’d wrapped in a clean sheet. They placed all of it under the tarp, Charlie explaining that with her in the Chevvie, even if godforbid the police stopped them both, he’d have all the incriminating stuff in his possession. “That way only one of us takes the fall.”
Charlie started to wonder why he’d
said that, since he didn’t believe it, and why he was going to all this trouble for her. He got as far as I mean I don’t owe her anything forchrissake before recalling that she did save his life. “Just hang back a few car lengths, okay?”
There it was in the pickup truck’s headlights. A little sign at the near end of the small concrete bridge: Beals Creek. Charlie braked, made sure the Chevvie was still behind him, and briefly flashed a right turn. Then he killed his lights. Happily there was no traffic.
He nearly missed the turnoff, just beyond the bridge’s far end. Charlie had chosen it because, in addition to paralleling the creek, it was one of the thinnest lines on the map. Good – not even a road sign to indicate that it was Stirrup Lane. He swung the truck onto the bumpy, ill-maintained two-lane. Lots of trees. Marjorie followed. The potholed pavement quickly gave way to gravel. Moonglow from the now-partially-overcast sky allowed Charlie to see, beyond barbed-wire fencing, past periodic breaks in the foliage, sparkles on the creek fifty yards or so to his right. The tires crunched on past a few small, darkened houses and trailer homes, each with what appeared to be at least two rusting car-hulks in the front yard.
Like it’s part of the fucking building code.
Charlie shook a Camel out of his pack, then decided against lighting it. It might be seen.
The fence ended as Charlie hoped it would. He slowed then turned, following tire-ruts that led off through a stand of trees toward the creek. He had taken into account the fact that – thankfully – it hadn’t rained lately; the ground along the creek would be hard. Getting bogged in mud with a corpse in back was not an option.
The Sixteenth Man Page 11