Pitch

by William Ollie

  Ed Chambers held up a small metal container. “You guys really wanta see this?”

  “No!”

  “Not me.”

  “Hell no!”

  * * *

  William Pitch sat in his study, smiling at the headline stretching across the front page of the Charleston Gazette.

  SOCIETY WOMAN FOUND SLAIN AT THE DIPLOMAT

  Marcia Lowrey, the forty-one year old ex-wife of Dan Lowrey, one of Charleston’s leading citizens, was found murdered in room #232 of the Charleston Diplomat. Ms. Lowrey’s body was found Sunday morning by an employee of the Diplomat, one of Charleston’s finest establishments. Police refused to release any details, but informed sources have confirmed the victim had been beaten beyond recognition and her body had been mutilated. Police in Charleston are asking anyone with information to come forward. A reward of $10,000 has been offered to anyone having information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible. Mrs. Lowrey is survived by…

  His pulse quickened as he scanned through the article. Witnesses said Marcia Lowrey had been seen dancing with a handsome young stranger. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Gotta be.”

  “Sir?” James Hastie called out as he entered the room. “Someone wants to speak with you on the telephone.” He walked over to Pitch’s desk, picked up the mouthpiece and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, James.”

  “Hello, Father,” the voice said. “How are you?”

  “Fine. How about you, doing all right? Enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes, I’d have to say I am. Have you read the morning paper?”

  “I most certainly have. Seems you’ve been quite busy.”

  “Yeah, well, idle hands and all that. You know how it is.”

  “Of course,” Pitch said, then, “I’ve got a bit of news.”

  “Such as?”

  “Earl Peters is dead, and we have a new sheriff.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Our old friend, Nathan Hayes.”

  “Well, well.”

  “Well indeed,” Pitch said, then, “Where are you?”

  “Still in Charleston, but I thought I might head out somewhere and see what else I can get into.”

  “That’s fine, but I want you here by the end of the week. No later than Saturday morning… Okay?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “All right then… happy hunting.”

  Monday Afternoon

  Barney Linton thought about the nothing life he was living. One bedroom apartment over a butcher shop, dead end job in a crummy little hotel, in a crummy little town. Doing nothing, going nowhere, courtesy of the wife who had kicked him out two years ago. And even though she had rolled him out the door like a bad penny, he missed her. Missed her, and his little girl, too. But there was nothing he could do about any of that now.

  Not in his present circumstance.

  Barney, born and bred in Bridgeport, Ohio, had been ordered to pay his wife alimony and child support, but he just couldn’t do it. That would have left him with barely enough money to pay his bills and eat. And he didn’t leave her, she kicked him out. So Barney left the state and drifted through town after town, finally winding up in Whitley, West Virginia, where his crummy little job paid him… barely enough money to pay his bills and eat.

  Barney looked at his watch. It was three-thirty, and he needed to get to the bank before it closed. He walked out into the hall, shut the door behind him and made his way down to the street, past a foul odor wafting from the butcher’s shop that had him shuddering with disgust as he walked down the sidewalk, cursing his ex for putting him in such a lousy situation.

  After a ten minute walk through town, he stepped into the bank, smiling and calling out a friendly greeting to a couple of customers, and to Annie Bridges, the teller who usually cashed his measly little paycheck.

  “Hey, Annie,” he said when he stepped up to the counter.

  “Well, hey there, Barney. What are you doing in here today? Need a little money, do you?”

  “Guess you might say that,” Barney said, reaching into the pocket of his sports jacket.

  “How much will you be wanting today?” she said, smiling as he showed her a pistol and the pillowcase he’d taken from the Appalachian.

  “About a sack full, Annie,” he said. “About a sack full.”

  Annie, laughing, said, “Oh, Barney, would you quit fooling around?”

  Barney, the gun pointed at her now, said, “I’m not fooling, Annie.”

  “Now, Barney, I’m not giving you any money. So before you get yourself into something you can’t get out—”

  Fire roaring from the barrel stopped Annie in mid-sentence as a thirty-eight-caliber bullet slammed into her smiling face, and Jeb Davis, who had come to town to make a withdrawal of his own, rushed forward, hitting Barney hard enough to knock him off balance, but not near hard enough to dislodge the pistol from his hand. Barney grabbed the counter, kicked out and fired three shots into Jeb’s chest, driving him down to the floor—blood spread slowly from his prone form while Annie, screaming and crying, clutched her bleeding jaw as Barney stepped up to another window and tossed the pillowcase to Patty Godby, who had stood frozen throughout the whole ordeal.

  “How about you, Patty? You think I’m fooling around, too?”

  “Pu… Please she stammered, tears welling in her eyes. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “I won’t, if you fill that up with cash. But if you don’t…” Barney pointed the gun at her, and cocked the hammer back.

  Harold Fraley was in his office, discussing a home improvement loan with Herb Dantley when the gun fired. Three more shots rang out and the two men jumped to their feet and ran for the door.

  “Jesus Christ!” Fraley shouted when he saw Jeb Davis lying motionless in a pool of blood. “Barney! What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Just making a withdrawal, Mr. Fraley.”

  “Here, Barney, here’s your money!” Patty Godby cried out. “Please… don’t hurt anybody else!”

  Barney walked over to Patty and picked up the pillowcase, waved the gun at Fraley and demanded his car keys. Moments later, Fraley’s dark green Cadillac was roaring out of the parking lot, Barney in wide-eyed panic as he raced down Main Street, onto the Main Street Bridge, across the bridge and up the mountain, calming himself now, his breathing becoming more regulated as he left the town in his rearview mirror.

  It all seemed so surreal, what he had done, almost as if he hadn’t been there at all, but had witnessed these events taking place in someone else’s life… on the street, in the bank, standing in the shadows as gunfire erupted, Annie screaming and old man Davis crashing to the floor, the loot snatched up and the Caddy roaring away—almost as if he were watching a movie.

  Up the mountain he went, the bank now a distant memory seen only through a hazy sheet of swirling smoke. Even though he knew he had been there, he barely remembered it. It was like he had watched himself rob the bank and shoot those people. Like it was a dream. But it couldn’t have been a dream because he was driving a stolen car with a pillowcase full of money right there on the seat beside him.

  Barney floored the gas pedal and the car sped across the mountain. Fishtailing in and out of both lanes, he rounded a sharp curve to see a coal truck coming straight at him. Cutting the wheel to the right barely avoided a collision that would have ended his life in a most horrible manner. The coal truck rumbled by, horn blaring as Barney skidded around the curve, slamming into a rocky wall and crushing the right front fender into the tire. The tire blew and the car screeched to a halt, and Barney jumped out. He tried pulling the fender away from the tire, but it wouldn’t budge. He tugged and pulled, and pulled again. Then he kicked it and gave up, and returned to the front seat, where he picked up the money and the gun, and started walking down the mountain.

  Halfway down, he crossed a stretch of gravel and sat down on the guardrail, pulled out his pistol and cocked the hammer, flipped
open the chamber. There were two bullets left.

  Barney Linton, the Barney Fife look-a-like who had never broken a law in his entire life, sat on the guardrail, trying to make sense out of what he had done.

  When did I decide to rob the bank?

  He couldn’t remember.

  Why’d I do it?

  He hadn’t a clue.

  A patrol car pulled up, stopped and the door swung open. Using the door as a shield, Nathan Hayes said, “Barney, what in the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I just don’t know.” Tears glistened in Barney’s eyes as he spoke. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and I don’t know why I did it today. Hell, I barely remember being in the bank. All I know is, I woke up and got dressed, and went to the bank to get some money. The next thing I know I’m sticking a gun in Annie’s face and pulling the trigger. It was like I was standing there watching myself do all that stuff, like something out of a dream. I don’t remember taking the gun or anything. I can’t even remember when I decided to rob the damn bank.”

  Nathan didn’t know what to think. Was he serious, or just making up some bullshit excuse? At this point he didn’t know. Nor did he care. “All right, Barney,” he said. “What say you toss that pistol over here?”

  “I don’t think I can do that, Sheriff.”

  “Barney, this shit’s over with. Just toss me the gun and let’s go on back and get this mess sorted out.”

  Barney tossed the pillowcase to Nathan.

  “Tell Annie I’m sorry, Sheriff. She’s an awfully nice lady.” Barney looked up at the clear blue sky, and put the barrel in his mouth.

  “God forgive me,” he said, and Nathan yelled, “Don’t!”

  But he did. He pulled the trigger and his head jerked sideways, a stunning act that sent blood, brains and chunks of skull raining down to the asphalt his body collapsed upon.

  Donnie’s Tavern

  “He said what? I don’t know why I did it?” Jerry Mays asked, and then answered his own question. “Hell, I know why he did it. The same reason anybody does somethin’ like that. He wanted the money.”

  “You didn’t see him sitting on that guardrail, Jerry. That was the most confused-looking son of a bitch I ever saw,” Nathan said, knowing he was about to send Jerry’s overactive imagination into high gear.

  “The damndest thing I ever heard,” Donnie said.

  Henry Walker, sitting a couple of stools down, called for another beer, and Donnie pulled another Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the cooler.

  “Here you go, Henry,” Donnie said, and sat the beer in front of him.

  “Don’t none of y’all remember Reverend Stone or Marty Donlan, do ya? You guys are probably too young to remember back then.”

  “Back when?” Nathan said.

  “October of twenty-nine.”

  “Well hell, Henry,” Donnie said. “Let’s see now. How old was I, about, uh… not even born yet?”

  “Ha ha, Donnie, you’re so darn funny. I thought your daddies might’ve told y’all. How ‘bout you, Jerry?”

  “Can’t say as he did Henry, but I’m all ears if you wanta tell me now.”

  Henry Walker took a swig of beer, and then started the strange but true tale of Reverend Carlton Stone. “Carlton Stone was the preacher out to the Baptist church. One mornin’ about the last week of October of twenty-nine, he shot his pretty little wife point blank in the face. When Earl Peters asked him why, you know what he said? ‘I don’t know why I did it’. Said he couldn’t hardly even remember doing it. Told Earl he was in the living room and heard the phone ringin’. Next thing he knew his wife was lying on the kitchen floor with her head blowed open.”

  “Earl told you this?” Nathan said.

  Earl had never mentioned any of this to him.

  “Alvie Ross Huckabee told my daddy, and I heard him. Me and Daddy was drivin’ back to town that mornin’, following right behind Marty Donlan and his wife and kids. Marty used to own a little furniture store down where Doc Fletcher has his drug store now. Anyway, we’re ridin’ along, and when we come up to the Main Street Bridge, Marty takes a sharp left and accelerates off the embankment like he was turning onto the county road—like he meant to do it, and I think he did mean it.

  “Daddy was the first one to reach ‘em, but he couldn’t do nothin’ to help. They were already dead, all except Marty, and he was barely alive. David Reeves’ daddy was a couple of cars behind, and Judge Lain, who was just a lawyer back then, was comin’ across the bridge when it happened. They both parked their cars and got down to the river fast as they could. A few minutes after they got Marty out of that crushed up car, Sheriff Peters pulled up with Reverend Stone. I ran up to the sheriff and told him what happened. He took Stone out of the backseat and the two of them went down to the riverbank. Daddy told me Marty was barely alive when Sheriff Peters asked him why he did it. And ya know what he said?” Henry paused and took a swig of beer.

  “Well?” Jerry said. “You gonna tell us, or what?”

  “He said ‘I don’t know. One minute I was drivin’ along and the next thing I know I’m sailin’ over the riverbank. It was like it wasn’t real, like it was a dream’. That’s almost exactly what Marty Donlan said. Daddy was kneelin’ right beside him when he said it. That was the only time I ever seen Daddy cry. Later on that night, they found Carlton Stone dead in his cell.”

  “Why have I never heard about this?” Donnie said.

  “Hell, Donnie, we weren’t even born yet, and that was a long time ago. People forget. And I’d be willing to bet there aren’t too many ever knew the whole story, not like Henry here. Even if they heard it, they probably wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Well, I sure as hell believe it,” Jerry Mays said. “I’ve been tellin’ y’all forever this is a weird fuckin’ place.”

  “Well, boys, I need to git,” Henry said, and then downed the rest of his beer and stood, waving goodbye on his way to the door.

  “Earl never told you about that, Nathan?” Jerry asked him.

  “No, he never did.”

  “You don’t think that’s strange?”

  “I’m with you on this one. It’s strange as hell, and I’m wondering why he didn’t tell me about it.” Over the years, Nathan and Earl had talked of many things, and this is something he thought Earl would’ve told him, if for no other reason than because it was one hell of a story.

  But Earl didn’t tell him about it, and what about Barney Linton? What’d he say? I got dressed and went to the bank to get some money? The next thing I know I’m sticking a gun in Annie’s face and pulling the trigger?

  Like it was a dream…

  “Nathan.”

  “Huh… what?”

  “You all right? You’re off into outer space over there.”

  “Sorry, Donnie. Just thinking about that shit at the bank.”

  “How about you, Jerry,” Nathan said. “You all right?”

  “Hell no!”

  The Moon Was High-The Sky Was Blue

  Thursday:

  Billy Belcher put a hand over his mouth, yawning as he stared at the blackboard. He had stuffed himself at lunch, eating an extra hot dog because he’d felt extra hungry. Now, as Vonda Peters droned endlessly on about something he didn’t know or care about, his eyelids seemed to be getting heavier and heavier. He certainly had no idea that Junior Wilkins was chewing a piece of notebook paper into soggy little spitballs, waiting for his sleepy friend to lay his head down. And he sure didn’t see Junior make eye contact with Gary Harbus and nod at their slumping friend.

  Nor did he see Harbus grin and return Junior’s nod, smiling as Vonda Peters walked to the blackboard and turned her back to her students. But he sure as heck felt it when Junior fired off two spitballs as fast as he could, while Harbus faked like he was firing at Billy and launched an attack on Junior instead.

  “Ow, damn it!” Billy yelped when the sloppy wet balls of paper smacked him on his cheek, and two more sp
lattered across Junior’s forehead.

  “Stop it, Harbus!” Junior yelled, quickly putting his face down on folded arms before Vonda could see what had caused the disturbance.

  Vonda walked over to Billy, who was wiping sodden bits of paper off his face.

  “Did I just hear you say damn it?”

  “Somebody hit me with a spitball.”

  Junior, you son of a bitch!

  “And you think that gives you the right to curse in my classroom?”

  “No ma’am. It just… happened so fast. I didn’t have time to think about what I was saying.”

  “Who did it?”

  Billy wanted to tell her it was Junior and Gary Harbus, but he wasn’t a snitch, and he couldn’t break the unspoken and unwritten code of silence. “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you just yell, stop it, Harbus?”

  “No ma’am.”

  Vonda looked at Junior, then at Harbus. Both red-faced children were grinning, Harbus’ thin lips pressed together as if trying to muffle a laugh. She turned back to Billy.

  “What was the last thing I said before you yelled out that swear word?”

  “Uh… uh… you mean when you were at the blackboard?”

  “Busted!” Harbus jeered, while the rest of the class burst into laughter.

  “Class, I’ll have every one of you join Billy in detention if I hear another sound! Now, the next person, or persons,” she paused, narrowing her eyes at Junior and Harbus, “who causes me to stop today’s lesson, will be very sorry.”

  Vonda returned to the blackboard, where she told the class to open their books and read pages forty-two through fifty, that tomorrow they would be tested on the material covered within those pages.