Mama Tried (Crime Fiction Inspired By Outlaw Country Music Book 1)

by J. L. Abramo

  I stared at Flatt’s Hardware Store and felt miserable. Desperately, I pulled my cell phone out of my shirt pocket and dialed.

  “Sheriff’s Office,” Carol Butters answered. I’d gone to school with her and hadn’t talked to her since then, but I still knew that twang.

  “Is Marion working today?” I asked. I figured he’d be the only one who would believe me. This was Tuesday, and if I remembered right, he was supposed to be on. He patrolled Three Jacks and a couple other nearby towns.

  “We don’t give out that kind of information.” The crisp voice turned a little haughty. Pure Carol Butters.

  I gave her my name. “Flatt’s Hardware Store is getting robbed. Tell Marion to get here as quick as he can. There are three robbers. Tell him I’m here and to try not to shoot me.” I hung up before she could say anything, and I hoped help was on close to hand.

  Cursing my own stupidity, I turned the phone’s ringer off and slid it into my jeans pocket. I pulled my ball cap down snug and walked back to the hardware store. My heart raced ninety-to-nothing. I caught the bell in my hand before it could ring and slipped it off the hook.

  I checked the round mirrors mounted in the back corners of the hardware store and spotted Clement and his buddies gathered around the Flatts at the back of the store where an EMPLOYEES ONLY stockroom was.

  I laid the bell on a stack of PVC pipes, then picked up a piece of two-by-four scrap lumber from a round bin there. My hands were big and callused, and my fingers wrapped the three-foot piece of timber just fine.

  “I said open that safe, old man!” Clement’s voice no longer dripped honey. It was hoarse and full of threat. “’Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna put a bullet in this old sow’s head!”

  Mrs. Flatt squalled in fear.

  Easing to the end of the aisle, I peered at the group. Clement and the Flatts were out of sight in the stockroom. The big guy, Virgil, stood with his hands in his pockets while him and Ronnie watched the door like they suspected Clement would try to sneak past them with whatever he found.

  “All right, all right!” Mr. Flatt’s gravelly voice carried fear in it, something I’d never heard from him. “Just give me a minute.”

  “We’re in the chips, amigo.” Virgil took a hand out of his pocket and clapped Ronnie on the shoulder with it.

  “I wonder how much they got?” Ronnie stuck his head inside the stockroom. “People say they’re sitting on a bundle.”

  I knew I should have stepped in and took a swing, but I was scared. Anything I did might cause the death of the Flatts, and me too.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” Clement swore. Then the basso thunder of a pistol shot rocketed through the store and filled my ears with cotton.

  Mrs. Flatt screamed.

  And I knew any further hesitation on my part would get us all killed. I stepped out into the aisle and swung that two-by-four like I was Big Papi trying to drive one over the Green Monster. The two-by-four slammed into Virgil’s head with a meaty whock! and bounced it off the wall beside him. He went down like his legs had turned into spaghetti.

  Virgil didn’t make a sound as he hit the floor, so either Ronnie heard the wood hitting bone or he caught a glimpse of the big man falling. Yelping, his voice barely audible above the ringing in my ears, Ronnie grabbed the knife from his hip and flicked it open, then drove the blade at me.

  I blocked the knife thrust with the two-by-four and drew it back about six inches, then put my weight behind it and slammed it into Ronnie’s face. His brown teeth splintered and his lips turned to crimson pulp. He tried to yell, but only bloody bubbles erupted from his mouth.

  When you have a guy on the ropes and the stakes could be your life, you don’t let up. I learned that the hard way in prison. Brimming with adrenaline, I stepped forward, gripped the two-by-four two feet apart in front of me, and hammered Ronnie’s knife hand with one end. Then I rammed that end into Ronnie’s forehead. As he fell, I kicked the dropped knife away, shooting it across the hardwood floor.

  Breathing hard, I fetched up against the wall and waited a minute, wondering what Clement would do.

  “You better show yourself!” Clement shouted. “Show yourself right damn now or I’m gonna shoot this old man again!”

  I cursed and looked around. I didn’t have a gun, but when it came to making mayhem, there were worse places than a hardware store to end up caught in. It’s a weapon-rich environment. I reached up for the circular saw blades hanging on the wall behind me and took down a heavy one designed for concrete mason work.

  “Do you hear me?” Clement demanded.

  After freeing the saw blade from the wrapping, I held it between my thumb and forefinger and peeked around the doorway.

  Blood soaked Mr. Flatt’s shirt over his stomach as he lay on the ground. The years hadn’t changed him much. He wore a steel-gray flattop, and a shirt and slacks that looked like he’d bought them off a rack from J. C. Penney.

  He looked out of it, but his chest was moving. On her knees beside him, Mrs. Flatt pressed her hands against his wound and sobbed uncontrollably. On the wall behind them, under a fake set of shelves, a wall safe almost big enough for a man to crawl into stood open. Bundles of cash sat stacked inside, and gold coins glinted beside them.

  The rumors were true.

  Still holding his weapon aimed at Mr. Flatt, Clement looked at me. The pistol shook in his hand and nervous fire shone in his eyes. “Is there anybody with you?”

  “No,” I said, knowing that one word drove what happened next.

  Clement fired again, but the bullet struck the concrete floor beside Mr. Flatt’s head. By that time I was moving, taking a step to the side and turning sideways, whipping the circular saw blade to my side. I threw it like a Frisbee, flinging it at Clement’s chest as he raised the pistol.

  The disc flew high, cutting across Clement’s forehead over his left eyebrow and unleashing a torrent of crimson. Head wounds bled a lot. He screamed and panicked, because blood scared a man when it got in his eyes. He didn’t know how badly he was hurt.

  He fired again, but I took another step to the side and rushed at him. I caught his gun wrist in my hand and twisted, feeling bones grate against each other, and something popped. Clement screamed again, but by then I knotted my fingers in his hair and banged his head against the concrete wall until his eyes rolled up in his head.

  I left him where he fell, gathered up his 9mm and the .38 revolver I assumed Mr. Flatt had kept tucked away in his safe. Then I knelt beside Mr. Flatt and looked at Mrs. Flatt as I took her hands in mine.

  “Let me see, Mrs. Flatt. Please.”

  Crying, shaking, she took her hands back. I looked at the wound, down low and to the side. It bled, but it didn’t pump. The bullet had missed arteries. An exit wound, bigger than the entrance, was in his back. I felt for his pulse and it felt strong, steady.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “The bullet went through and it doesn’t look like anything vital was hit. He’ll be fine once the paramedics get here. I called the sheriff’s office from my truck before I came back in. Let’s just patch him up as best as we can.”

  She nodded and I took my shirt off. We tore the sleeves off and made makeshift bandages to press against Mr. Flatt’s wounds. The hole at the back was already slowing, clotting up.

  Deputy Marion Bridger shoved his head in through the door, following the pistol in his hands. He had always been heavy, even back in grade school when neither of us was eating right, and the bulletproof vest he wore under his gray uniform blouse made him look even bigger. He wore his hair short and his mustache was thin and neatly clipped.

  He looked at me and called my name as if he couldn’t believe it. “You leave these two guys out here?”

  I nodded. “They were working with this guy.” I pointed a bloody finger at Clement.

  Still holding his pistol in both hands, Marion eased over to get a better look in the safe. He whistled. “Lordy, but that’s a lot of money. How much you figure is in th
ere?”

  I shook my head and kept the pressure on Mr. Flatt’s wounds.

  Marion rifled through the stacks of cash. “Just looking at it, I’d say there’s gotta be two or three million dollars in here. Man, these people got more money than they know what to do with.” He looked at me, then down at Mr. Flatt. “Is he gonna die?”

  “No. I’ll be glad when the paramedics get here, though.”

  “They’re on their way. A few minutes out.” Marion stood and looked at me. “That’s a hell of a lot of money, buddy.”

  I didn’t like the way he said that, but I didn’t say anything.

  “If you think about it, this here is an opportunity.”

  I looked at him then, liking the way his mind worked even less.

  “Me and you, we’ve never had nothing. Always had to hustle for everything we got. And nobody knows how much money is in that safe. We could take most of it, leave a little behind. Then tell it like we stopped the robbery too late.”

  I looked at that shine in his eyes, recognizing it for the greed that it was. He’d always had his daddy’s eyes. “The Flatts know how much money is in there.”

  He grinned. “Maybe they didn’t survive the robbery.”

  “Bounce, you can’t—”

  His eyes hardened. “Nobody calls me that anymore. Not even you. Now you get right with me, or you didn’t survive this either.”

  Going for broke, I hurled myself at him, but my left foot slipped in Mr. Flatt’s blood and I went down hard. Bounce kicked me in the side of the head and I saw his face again that night he’d left me holding the bag to be arrested. Senses spinning, I tried to get up.

  Bounce pointed his pistol at me. “I’m sorry, man. I am. Especially after you came for me that night when Tinker and the others got arrested by the cops. But guys like us, we gotta look out for ourselves. That money, it can change my life. Get me outta this town. Like we always wanted to do. I know you understand that.”

  I did understand it. I wanted out too, but my momma had lived all her life here and she wasn’t gonna go anywhere. She’d been living in a rundown garage apartment when I’d gotten out of prison, but I’d worked us into a two-bedroom house that I was planning on buying. It wasn’t much, but I’d gotten it the right way. I was proud of that.

  I focused on Bounce, trying to put the two images I had of him into one finished piece. “I can’t let you hurt these people.”

  He grinned, but he looked sad too. “You won’t. I’ll kill you first.”

  A shot rang out as I pushed myself forward and grabbed hold of him. I wondered where the bullet had hit me, but I didn’t feel any pain other than what throbbed in my skull. Bounce went down like wet cement and laid there. His gun fell to his side and slid from his limp fingers.

  His mouth opened and blood spilled out. Then his eyes flattened, the pupils blossoming into black pools that eclipsed the irises. More blood poured from the back of his head.

  Against the wall by her husband, Mrs. Flatt still held the .38 in both hands, aiming at me.

  Slowly, I spread my hands out and raised them above my shoulders. For a minute, I thought she was going to shoot me too.

  Then Mr. Flatt called for her. She dropped the pistol and turned to him. “Help me,” she said. “Help me keep him alive.”

  I went over to her and put pressure on Mr. Flatt’s wounds again. The blood was clotting on its own. I thought he’d be fine, but I kept my hands on him all the same because I knew she took comfort in me doing that.

  She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, then patted my face with a trembling hand. “I had you wrong. A lot of us had you wrong.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. Still maintaining pressure on Mr. Flatt’s belly wound, I put an arm around her and offered comfort, and she leaned into me while we listened to the shrill of the arriving paramedics.

  Back to TOC

  PARDON ME (I’VE GOT SOMEONE TO KILL)

  Eric Beetner

  Bob Earl was a weaselly-faced son of a bitch with a slight wobble in his step thanks to the cottonmouth that hitched a ride on his calf and shot two fangs worth of venom so deep he had to be cut off with a Buck knife taking most of Bob’s leg muscle with it to prevent the poison reaching his heart.

  Bob Earl came into the Tin Star bearing bad news and he knew just where to go to do the telling. The far back booth was where Donny Lytle could be found most nights holding court with the men who would bend over backwards to do what he said or keeping company with a lady who would shed her Wranglers and bend any way he asked.

  It was a redhead that night, but when Donny saw Bob Earl peg-legging it across the barroom like a man on the run from a swarm of hornets, he knew his date was over.

  Donny took another swig of beer as he waited for the gimp to finish his trek. He sat back in his chair, legs spread wide and his denim shirt unbuttoned to mid chest. The redhead was sucking an ice cube out of her Jack and Coke and getting horny off Donny’s Burt Reynolds charm and mustache.

  “Pardon me, darlin’,” he said to his date before Bob Earl had even cut a swath halfway through the sawdust on the dance floor. Bob Earl reached the table and stopped to both catch his breath and let his eyes adjust to the light, or lack thereof, off in that corner. He brought with him the musky smell of a man who’d been sweating for a good long time and hadn’t showered in an even longer stretch. A date killer, that’s what the stench was. The redhead sank deeper into the shadow and sipped at her Jack and Coke until the ice rattled.

  “What is it, Bob?”

  Bob shook his head as if the news he had to tell would hurt coming out. He sucked a few extra breaths while he set himself for spilling the beans. “It’s Jimmy,” he said. “They got him.”

  “Cops?”

  Bob Earl nodded, wet strands of his hair clung to his forehead like earthworms flattened on the pavement after a rain. Donny slammed his beer to the table, foam volcanoed up the neck and soaked his right hand. Froth clung to his mustache.

  “When?”

  “Tonight. They ambushed him. They was waitin’.”

  The redhead perked up. “They arrested Jimmy?”

  Donny didn’t look at her. “Time for you to go, darlin’.”

  She stayed put. Donny leaned closer to Bob Earl. “You think someone snitched?”

  “I don’t see no other way. They had three cars waitin’. The whole load is gone. They knew he was comin’.”

  Donny stared a steel rod through the floor. He thought back over anyone who could have put the finger on Jimmy, his kid brother. Jimmy who joined Donny’s operation at his own insistence. Jimmy who had been the good kid, the chance, the exception. And Donny had let him in and now got him caught.

  He wasn’t worried about himself. He took precautions. Nothing would lead back to him. But for a transgression like this, someone was going to pay.

  The trial took no time. A tip which led to the bust. More product the county had recovered in one shot since Johnny Cash was still alive. Ten to fifteen was the number the judge handed down, parole in five if he was good.

  Donny had to hear about it over the phone. Being in the courthouse was bad business and it would have been too tough for him. He would have broken down crying, or more likely started busting up the place, breaking chairs being a big stress reliever in Donny’s world.

  He hung up the phone saying, “I know you’ll excuse me if I say goodnight, but I’ve got someone to kill.”

  In the short few weeks since Jimmy’s bust Donny had narrowed down the list of suspects to three. He thought about killing all three to be safe, but he knew that was only his anger thinking for him. Worse than thinking with your prick.

  He had his most likely candidate and he knew when he was done with him, Donny would know the truth.

  Burly Wilcox knew the time and place. Knew where Jimmy would be even if he himself was twenty miles away balls deep in
an underage girl who shut her eyes and took the pain all for a pull on the pipe as reward. Burly Wilcox made bad decisions.

  Twice in and out of jail, once on the receiving end of a broken nose from a pissed off dad who didn’t like his daughter being pounded by an ex-con and recreational drug user, and three times the reason Donny had to get involved and smooth the waters when deals didn’t go as planned.

  He once talked one customer out of taking Burly’s thumb as payment for damages after a delivery made it to him three days late. Burly claimed car trouble. Almost got him fired and kicked out of the opposable thumb club, but Donny cut a deal and got promises from Burly it wouldn’t happen again.

  Jimmy living in a cell would be harder for Burly to talk his way out of.

  Donny knocked on the door with the barrel of his gun. He brought his razor and wanted to use it if he found Burly was his guy, but that was pleasure and the gun was business.

  “Hey, Donny. What’s up?” Burly answered the door in his underwear, hair askew, red road map lines across his cheek where the pillow creases left indents.

  Donny pushed past him before Burly had a chance to clear the crust from his eyes. “Need to talk to you.” Burly watched the gun go past as Donny slid by him.

  “Sure...sure, Don. What about?” Burly rolled a bloodshot eye around the front step to see if Donny had come alone before closing the door.

  A good five years had gone since Donny did any muscle work of his own to speak of. His reputation hadn’t dimmed the slightest during his hiatus. The embellishments of hindsight had raised his terror level, if anything. Burly knew what an armed Donny Lytle in his home meant, and it was bad.

  “Jimmy went down.”

  “Yeah. I heard.” Burly scratched his balls, then thought better of it. Respect and all. He lived with the itch like a tick was burrowing beneath his sack.

  “Someone tipped.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.” Donny watched for a sign, a tell. He held the gun in front of him, hands crossed below his belt and the gun looking like he had his dick out and was pissing all over Burly’s already piss-stained floor.