The Devil Wears Wings

by Harry Whittington

"You damned fool," I yelled at him. "You damned drunk. Get that plane out of there. We don't want to hide it. Man, the minute you hide, some hick wants to know why. Now get that thing back out on the runway."

  He didn't like it but he pulled around, limbs scraping and whining against the fabric, and pulled back to the runway leaving his tracks in the mud and weeds.

  I walked back more slowly, not liking any of it, wanting to get out of here. I had to watch Sid closely to keep him from thinking for himself.

  By the time I'd walked back to the runway, Sid was out of the plane pointing at something at the rain ditch across the field.

  I saw the two kids then. Their movement had snagged at my attention as I landed. They were fishing with cane poles in the irrigation ditch. They had stopped fishing when we came in for a landing and were standing at the crest of the embankment now, staring at us.

  I glanced around, looking for a house to which they might belong. I saw nothing. Beyond the irrigation ditch was a hammock and past that I could see the turned land of strawberry fields. I could see no house, and hear nothing but silence. Sid and I stood beside the planes and the kids remained motionless against the elder and sweet bay growing over the ditch.

  Suddenly Sid ran at them, yelling and waving his arms. I stood there, unable to move. He looked like some wild man or a scarecrow come to life. When he got near enough for the kids to realize that he was cursing and threatening them, and near enough they could see that frantic face and those wild eyebrows, they screamed in terror. They jumped across the ditch and ran off into the hammock.

  Sid walked back, laughing and talking to himself.

  I went to the Cessna and hauled out our suitcases. I stared at the fifth of Echo Springs. It was empty. I stood there with the bottle in my hand.

  Sid walked over to me. He chortled and took the bottle. "I'm cutting down," he said. "Usually by this time of day I've had two of these. "

  Before I could say anything he hurled the bottle away from him and smashed it on the asphalt runway.

  "My old friend the bottle," he said. "That's the way I treat all my old friends."

  For a moment I was so full of rage I could hardly speak. I wanted to yell at him, but when I spoke, my voice was a hoarse whisper.

  "You better pull yourself together, Coates. We got to land on this strip again. We got to take off. All we need is one flat tire."

  He laughed some more, walking around kicking the shards and hunks of glass off the asphalt into the weeds. He came back to the Aeronca, chuckling.

  "You happy now?" he said. "Let's go."

  I opened my suitcase, took out the coveralls and stepped into them. He watched me, his strange eyes owlish. Then he opened his suitcase. He stayed hunkered over it while time ticked on.

  "Let's get a move on," I said.

  "We got plenty of time. Let me have a drink."

  He was struggling with the top of his second fifth. He giggled.

  "Man, the way you put that Aeronca in the air back there at Greta Field. One thing, it don't make me feel bad I can't fly as well as you. Few men can."

  "Get your coveralls on. Let's get out of here. We can't waste time now."

  He was stumbling around trying to step into his coveralls. "Why not?" he said. He'd lost all sense of time. "They may not miss this Aeronca over at Greta all day. The way it was storming over there, who'd be going out in a plane?" He giggled again.

  I stood there and gazed at the sky, feeling the nerves in my stomach tighten up again. We had flown out of the storm and into the sun. It wasn't bright, but there were no rough winds in this part of the state.

  ***

  There were no rough winds in the Fort Dale area, either.

  The noon sun glinted feebly on the steel towers and high tension wires strung across the stubbled field we had chosen just west of the little cattle town.

  I cruised in low, circling the Aeronca from the south over the highpiled sand hills of the fertilizer plant that was across a narrow hammock from the field. The plant was a metal building, floury white in the sunlight, with tall stacks politely belching noon-hour smoke.

  The hammock was an oak and pine grove and I sliced it thin crossing toward the field.

  "Look at the hicks down there in that plant yard," Sid said. "Act like they never saw a plane before. Out there rubber-necking."

  "Damn them," I said, keeping my eyes on the field. "I'll lay you money they dash over to see why we land."

  "You should have thought of that when you chose this field."

  "Hell. Did I know we'd get here at noon?"

  "To hell with it. That's no sweat. Sunday pilots land all the time in open fields to take a leak."

  He pulled lovingly at his bottle. He giggled. "I'll run at them. They'll think I'm from Mars."

  "Aren't you?"

  He giggled again, bracing himself at the impact that loomed below us. This field had been plowed, harrowed and then left fallow for almost a year. It was rough. I forgot about Sid, concentrating on kissing just the tops of those weeds and moving across them.

  It was shaky but when I pulled it up, Sid exhaled with pleasure.

  "Man, what you are is a genius."

  I killed the engine, checked everything. The tension began to increase. From now on, flying had nothing to do with it. Robbery was new and alien to me, and no matter how carefully we had rehearsed, much of it had to be played by ear.

  To my left there was a thickly grown woods of oak, black jack and pine. I saw no movement out there, no sign of any buildings. The road along the right of the field was a narrow country road that led to the fertilizer factory and the cattle land beyond. Across the field and through a grove of trees, I could see the red roof of the farmhouse. Nearer there was a ditch, a rusted wire fence strung between rotting pinewood posts. The hedgerow was thick along the fence with sumac and myrtle, blackberry briars and fennel, the sort of place where rabbits and birds nested. The noon silence crowded in when the sound of the motor died.

  I put the pawnshop gun in my coverall pocket, stuffed some of the cloth bags in other pockets along with the silk stocking. Sid examined his gun and I could read pure delight in his distended eyes. He pushed it into his pocket along with his stocking and the rest of the cloth bags.

  "This is got to be it," he said, talking to himself. "Now, I'm going to show 'em. I'm going to show them sons of bitches. They didn't want me at home, they didn't want me at school. First thing I ever remember is, nobody wanted me around. I was too much trouble. Well, by God, I'm going to be trouble now. I'm going to show them sons of bitches."

  "You ready?" I said.

  "Son, I was born ready for this."

  We put on our dark glasses. I checked my wrist watch. It was twelve-ten. We had our plans for the robbery all set. We had allowed for the hike into town, the time it would require to hobble the local law, get into the bank and out of it.

  "Let's go," I said.

  We walked across the plowed field, climbed the weed-grown fence. I stepped toward the road, then turned back and kicked the rusted wire down until it sagged and broke, leaving a place we could cross hurriedly.

  "Man, what you are is a genius. Man, with you with me, I'll show those bastards."

  Sid kept laughing and talking to himself as we walked north along the road. It was less than a quarter of a mile to the main drag of Fort Dale and another four blocks to the center of the town-and the bank.

  A filling station/beer tavern stood on the corner. It was a square frame building with tin tobacco and cigarette ads nailed on its walls. The front ramps were shell-paved. A couple of paint-faded fuel tanks stood out front along with a battered water can and an air hose. A man in his fifties came out the front screen door and flies went up from it in a covey. A bread ad was tacked across one of the screen doors and seven generations of dust clogged the screens.

  He ran out to the ramp beside his gas pumps, staring at us. He wore a denim shirt and levis. He needed a shave and would have felt better if he were
thirty pounds lighter. His belt sagged under the pressure of his stomach.

  He looked us over carefully. Strangers in the backwoods attract a lot of attention. He was a friendly man and so curious that his nose twitched like a rabbit's.

  "Howdy," he said, grinning.

  Sid glared at him. "Why?" he said.

  The man went on smiling, but the effort pulled his mouth out of shape. We did not stop walking. He was not rebuffed.

  "You fellows walk far?"

  "No."

  "Got car trouble, fellows? Leave your car back down the road there?"

  Sid stopped walking and glared at the man until the poor guy got an uncomfortable sag in his flushed cheeks.

  "For God's sake, Pop, why don't you go back in that little outhouse of yours and draw yourself a cold beer?"

  His mouth drooped. "Just trying to help, mister. I can see you fellows are strangers."

  "So go back to sleep."

  He stood there watching us as we walked the next two blocks. When we crossed the railroad tracks, I glanced back. He was still there.

  We walked east, passed a feed store, a couple of cafes, a dress shop. I could not help staring at the red-brick building that housed the bank on the corner across the street. Sid was rubbing his hands together, smacking his lips.

  Old men were sitting on boxes and benches tilted against the buildings in the shade. They eyed us as we passed. Some spoke politely and then leaned together, trying to figure what had brought us to town. Several cars were parked on both sides of the street, but business had quieted and there was a noon-hour lull about the village. A faint mist of rain kept everything damp, but there were still no rough winds, no signs of those thunderheads or that cold front that was due from the north. It was a great day for a picnic.

  We went into a beer tavern across the street from the bank. Sid sat on a stool from which he could watch the bank front from the bar. He ordered a couple of beers. This was part of our plan, but I did not even sip at mine because I was tightening up and didn't know if I could keep it on my stomach. Besides, I no longer required any stimulants.

  We did not remove our glasses, even though the tavern was dark and wearing them in the darkness struck the other patrons as silly. They glanced at each other, grinning about the screwball strangers who were already drunk.

  We could not have asked them for a more satisfying opinion of us. I sat at the bar with my back to the door. The place was a narrow store that had been converted with a cheap bar, cheap tables and a few beer signs. I glanced over my shoulder, studying as much of the bank as I could. It opened on Main Street with two glass doors. Some construction work was in progress directly east of the doorway. On the west side of the bank was a drive-in window.

  I checked my watch, nodded at Sid. We got up to leave and Sid hammed up his drunk. Anyhow, I hoped it was in part acting. The men in the tavern snickered and nudged each other.

  We jaywalked across the street to the far curb with Sid walking in a wobbly manner that had everybody laughing at him. We looked at the stores and I chose the drugstore, half a block east of the bank. This was a very modern layout, brightly lighted, freshly painted and air-conditioned. The smell of chocolate syrup and cosmetics was strong. Two women clerks were on duty, one behind the soda bar and the other at the drug counter. When Sid stumbled across the entrance they regarded us with the kind of disapproval you'll only see in the faces of small town women who attend church regularly and have pledged to avoid whisky and the men who drink it.

  He sat at the soda fountain. The girl behind it looked at us questioningly. She was in her early twenties, with lifeless brunette hair caught in a bun and net. Her mouth was tightly set. Sid semaphored her with his white brows.

  "You sell beer, girlie?"

  "I'm afraid you'll have to go to the tavern across the street." She gave us the haughty treatment as if we were something she wouldn't even touch to toss in the garbage.

  "I been to the tavern across the street," Sid said.

  "That's obvious."

  I laughed at her self-righteous voice. She glanced at me. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem more sober than your friend, mister. Or maybe I should say less drunk. You better take care of him. The police are rough on drunks in this town."

  "Drunks?" Sid slapped at the marble bar with his open palms.

  "That's right. We don't tolerate drunks in this town. You're liable to get arrested."

  "Who'd arrest us?" Sid wanted to know. The other clerk and a couple of teenagers reading comics at the magazine rack were watching now, entranced. "You mean you got police in this town?"

  She flushed. "We certainly have. You keep being so loud and you'll find out."

  "Tough town, eh?" Sid slid off the stool and strode toward the pay phone on the front wall near the plate glass windows. "Don't look so tough to me."

  He scrabbled through the fifteen-page phone directory.

  "What you doing, buddy?" I said, sounding alarmed.

  "Looking for the number of the police station," Sid said, voice loud and daring.

  "You don't have to look it up," the girl said in her haughty way. "I can tell you the number. It's Twenty-six Blue."

  He fumbled in his coverall pockets and found a dime. The two kids at the rack were giggling, nudging each other. The whole thing had a sense of unreality to me, too, but it was something that had to be done.

  "You don't really have to call them," the girl said, still daring him. "That's the office, upstairs there, right across the street."

  Sid stared through the plate glass window. I glanced up there, too. Through the opened window I could see a stout middle-aged man sitting tilted back in a swivel chair, his feet against a roll-top desk.

  "Twenty-six Blue," Sid said "What a lovely number. I think I'll name my first child that."

  "You better stop fooling around," the girl warned him.

  "She's right," I said, laying it on thick and moving around at the counter as though worried and helpless.

  The other people in the drugstore stood unmoving and watched open-mouthed as Sid punched in a dime and dialed Twenty-six Blue. We could almost hear the phone ringing in the upstairs office across the street.

  We saw the stout man swing his feet off the desk and sit forward, picking up the receiver.

  Sid said, "Let me talk to the police chief." Then he said, "Home at lunch? What's to happen to crime while he's home at lunch?… Who are you?… Constable Bill Gill? Bill Gill. You're kidding me. Nobody is named Bill Gill… Well, you better get off your fat chunks and get over to the drugstore. We got a couple of out-of-town men over here. Acting drunk and mighty disorderly."

  He replaced the receiver. None of the people in the drugstore spoke. None of them moved. The young girl was holding a magazine opened in her hands. She had forgotten it. We stood there watching the man in the upstairs window across the street. He replaced the receiver, sat a moment scratching his head. Finally he stood up, wearing a khaki shirt and khaki trousers. He put on a five-gallon Stetson hat and walked slowly out of the office.

  A moment later we saw him come out of the stairwell onto the sidewalk across the street. The counter girl spoke to Sid, voice selfrighteous. "You're going to get it now. He'll take you to jail."

  The constable was wearing high boots. He started to jaywalk across the street, changed his mind. He still hadn't decided if someone were joking with him or not. He got into a police car, started it, backed out of the angle-parking space. A plume of white exhaust billowed out in the faintly misting rain.

  Constable Gill made a U-turn in the middle of the street and parked in the loading zone before the drugstore. Sid put his arm around my shoulders. "Come on, friend, let's go see the constable."

  We staggered out of the drugstore and waited for him at the curb.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The constable sat behind the wheel of his car and stared at us. He didn't suspect it, but our plan was ticking off just about as we'd planned. Sid's staggering around the stre
ets of a small town might sound as off-beam as Sid himself, but except that Sid had had more to drink than I thought he would-more than most men could drink and still navigate at all-we were coming in strong and clear.

  Making a scene in the drugstore and calling the cops might sound as if we were from left field. But we had talked it out, and the natural, vital first move was to block the local law enforcement out of action. Next, we had to have the use of a car. We hoped to accomplish both objectives when we met Constable Gill in front of the drugstore.

  The female drug clerks and the teenagers followed us to the doorway and a few hicks gathered along the walk when the constable got out of his car. Gill watched Sid's antics for a few moments and grinned in a good-natured way as if he were enjoying a monkey in a zoo.

  Constable Gill was a man of medium height, with pot-gut and weather-lined face. "Looks like you fellows have had too much to drink," he said amiably.

  Sid was loud, pugnacious. "Yeah? Where would we get too much to drink in this hick town? There ain't too much to drink in this whole town."

  The constable said, "Well, maybe you brought it with you. But one thing sure. You've had too much."

  Sid spoke to me. "Come on, buddy. No sense yakking with this guy."

  The crowd closed in, grinning. The constable was enjoying himself. Days can be long and dull in a village. "Where you think you're going?"

  "What makes you think it concerns you?" Sid said loudly, so loudly the other sounds in the noon-hour seemed lost.

  "I'm the law around here, fellow."

  "You the law? You don't look like so much to me.

  Somebody in the crowd spoke up. "Don't let him talk to you like this, Bill. Why don't you lock that smart guy up. Show him. He can't come in here like this."

  "Yeah?" Sid's eyebrows wiggled. He shoved his face close to the constable's. "Why don't you do that? Why don't you try to do that?"

  "Why don't you guys just behave yourselves?" The constable by nature was just a good joe. He looked uncomfortable. He would arrest us, but he was giving us every chance first. "I don't want to lock you boys up-unless I have to."