Summer of the Guns

by Justin Daniel Herman

  Captain Sykes opened the trunk of his patrol car and pulled out a gas can, which he emptied into our truck. “Five gallons,” he said. “If that old bucket you’ve got gets seven miles to the gallon, you’ll get to the next gas station no problem. It’s twenty miles to the valley down there, mostly downhill.”

  Somehow the whole thing seemed odd. Looking back on it now, I suppose Captain Sykes already suspected who Papa was. But for some reason, he was letting us go. Papa was speechless for a while, then mumbled his thanks.

  “Keep the can,” said Captain Sykes, handing it over to me. “You may need it again.” Then he paused at his car and pulled something from his pocket. “I don’t carry much money,” he said as he handed a paper dollar to Papa. “That’s only a buck, but it’ll buy you enough gas at the Mary J station to get you to the next road camp. By the way, don’t take the Congress Junction cutoff; that leads to Wickenberg. Head straight on and you’ll see a road camp run by a friend of mine. He charges fifty cents a night to park there and he provides water, but you won’t have to pay.” Then Captain Sykes took a note pad from his shirt pocket and scribbled something on it. “Tell him you’re a friend of Charlie Sykes and give him this note. He’ll put you to work. I’ll bet you’re good with those big hands of yours. I’ll stop by and check on you after I finish my shift.”

  Without another word, he climbed into his car and slowly started down the highway. Then he braked to a stop and backed up as though he’d forgotten something. “You be careful now,” he said. “It wouldn’t be good for some other cop to stop you.”

  Captain Sykes sat there watching as we cranked the old truck to life and headed down the hill, which soon gentled into a shallow slope. Papa tried the brakes a couple of times to make sure they were working and then continued at a snail’s pace. Ahead of us were mountains all around but the road crossed between them. It took about an hour to reach the gas station Sykes had spoken about. Only when we got there, we found it closed tightly. A sign in the window said, “GONE FISHING. BACK NEXT WEEK.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Papa, “not a fish in a hundred miles and somehow he’s gone fishing.” Then he sat silently for a while before putting the truck in gear again. “We got no choice but to get as far as we can,” he said. “Maybe we can make it to that road camp with what gas we got. Shouldn’t be but twenty miles from what he said, and the road’s flat from here on, maybe even a little downhill.”

  We made good time passing the cutoff to Wickenburg. When we reached the rest stop, there was nobody there at all. Papa pulled over to put water in the radiator, which was starting to blow steam. I needed to use the toilet, a one-hole outhouse with paper strewn all over the floor on the men’s side. I took care of my needs quick so that Papa could follow me. It didn’t take Papa long, either, but Sara was slow. As we stood there waiting for her, the same blue Model A roadster we’d seen earlier pulled into the gravel lot. Two young men climbed out and peered over at Papa and me.

  The taller one had black, piercing eyes and plastered-down brown hair. His long sideburns framed his narrow face. He wore a shirt and pants that looked freshly ironed, but his friend’s clothes were rumpled. He was short and stocky with a baby face and straggly hair. “You standin’ guard there, kid?” asked the tall one in a reedy voice. “We need to use the john.” I could tell he was trying to act tough.

  “I’m waiting for my sister,” I answered as I stepped out of their way. Just then, Sara came out from the women’s side carrying her doll. She looked startled when she saw them.

  Just as we started to walk back to the car, we heard the restroom door shut. “You better hurry,” said the one with sideburns, “or we might miss her.”

  “We stay right here and wait for her,” said the other one from inside the bathroom. “We’ll flag her down.” I couldn’t hear the reply but there was cursing back and forth. They were arguing about something. We didn’t wait to hear more. After cranking the truck again, we took off down the highway.

  “Now keep your eyes open,” Papa said. “That road camp will be coming soon. Can’t be more’n a few miles from here.” No sooner were the words spoken than the engine died without warning. We knew we were out of gas again. “Oh, hell,” Papa muttered as he guided the truck on to the shoulder. “We’re gonna have a long walk.”

  Papa sat there silently after we rolled to a stop on the shoulder. “Maybe that gas can will come in handy,” he finally said. “We can’t be more’n a mile past that rest stop. If I hurry, maybe I can catch those boys. If they’re not there, somebody will be sure to come along sooner or later. Maybe that cop Sykes will come back, like he said he would.”

  He started to walk quickly in the direction of the rest stop, carrying the gas can. When he’d gone thirty feet, he stopped and looked back at us. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said. “Just stay by the truck.”

  I felt a scared feeling wash across me as Papa walked away. All around us were mesquite trees and big thorny cactus. I knew if we were stuck there, we’d have to have some water. We sat in the truck for a few minutes, but it was too hot to stay. Finally we opened the door and jumped down, then sat ourselves in the truck’s shadow. We played tic-tac-toe in the gravel as we waited for Papa. I don’t think either one of us were paying much attention to the game.

  The afternoon sun got hotter as we sat beside the truck. After we got bored of playing tic-tac-toe, Sara picked up her doll and pretended she was feeding her. I fiddled with my baseball cap, pulling the bill down over my eyes to shut out the desert glare. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it seemed longer than an hour. I counted three cars, all heading in the direction we’d been traveling. Finally, a pretty white car with its top down came by, moving fast. There was a young woman behind the wheel with her hair blowing in the wind, but she didn’t look at us. A few minutes later, we heard some loud banging sounds from far away. I thought it might be a car backfiring. We sat there another half hour or so, only I was beginning to feel panicky. The sun was getting low. Papa should have been back already.

  At last, I heard a car engine. When I twisted my head, I saw the blue Model A approaching from the east. I figured Papa would be inside with the boys, so I jumped up and ran to the side of the highway, waving my arms above my head. As the roadster came closer, I could make out only two figures inside. Papa wasn’t one of them.

  Suddenly I panicked. Something was wrong. I retreated toward the truck as they approached, not knowing what to expect. When they went on by, I breathed a sigh of relief. Only then they stopped about a hundred yards away. The short one glanced back at us as they sat there in their car, then they cut the engine. They got out quickly, then started walking toward us. I saw the taller one pull something from his pocket. He tried to hold it behind his leg, like he was hiding it. It looked like a gun but I was too far away to be sure.

  I ran back to Sara and grabbed her arm, then pulled her into a mesquite thicket. My gasping was so loud I was sure they could hear me. When Sara started to cry, I gently placed my hand over her mouth.

  Once she quieted, I removed my hand. I was trying to figure out our next move when I heard the crunch of shoes on the desert gravel. “C’mon,” yelled the short one, “we ain’t got time to look for ‘em. This is stupid anyway. They didn’t see nothin’.”

  After a short wait, I heard their engine crank up again. I stood up just in time to see them disappear down the road. My heart was beating so fast I thought my chest would explode. I led Sara back to our truck, where she retrieved her doll and stood hugging it. By now I knew something had happened to Papa. I just stood there trying to make up my mind what to do next. But Sara was already taking action. She tugged at my sleeve, grunting and twisting her face into a determined expression. There were no tears now. She pointed mutely in the direction Papa had gone and started walking. I waited for a moment and then followed her. She’d caught her dress in the mesquite bush and tore it, but she took no notice at all.

  It seemed like forever before we rea
ched the rest stop. It was a scene I’ll never forget. The white car driven by the young woman was there, its driver’s side door wide open. The woman lay nearby in a pool of blood. She looked dead. Then I saw my father a few feet away, his shirt soaked with blood from his collar to his chest. He had a gun in his hand. Sara ran to him, dropping her doll as she kneeled beside him. His eyes flickered briefly, then closed again.

  Sara started to cry loudly. I was so stunned that I just stood there.

  After the shock had passed, I came to my senses enough to act. I knew Papa didn’t shoot that lady, so I decided to hide the gun. I pried it loose from Papa’s hand and threw it as hard as I could into the brush. Then we just waited for someone to come.

  Sara had Papa’s blood all over her dress, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her doll lay face down on the ground beside her. It seemed like hours before a car pulled up, though it was probably only a few minutes. I was relieved that it was Captain Sykes who approached us, but strangely he didn’t speak. He went to the woman first, felt her pulse, then took a pillow from his car and placed it under her head. “Jesus, it’s Jessie Atkins,” he blurted. Then he stood silently. “She’s dying,” he said in a sad voice.

  Then he came over to my father and picked up his wrist to feel for a pulse. As he did so, he examined the hand and sniffed at it. “Gunpowder!” he said. “Your pa’s been firing a gun. Now where is it?” I didn’t answer as he continued to search for a pulse. “I’m afraid he’s gone,” he muttered.

  I started blubbering loudly as he went back to his patrol car. I watched him turn on his radio and make a call to the dispatch. When he returned, his mood softened. He went over to Sara and tried to console her.

  “She can’t hear you,” I scolded him. “She’s deaf. And my Papa didn’t kill that lady. Them other guys did it. Them guys in a Model A.”

  “What other guys?” he demanded “Did you see this happen?” He asked the question in an angry tone.

  “Not exactly,” I stammered, “We were sitting by the truck after we ran out of gas. I seen two guys come by before Sara and me walked back here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Just relax. You can tell me later what you saw.”

  When I looked back at Papa I couldn’t see him breathing. I tried to keep from crying but somehow I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” said Captain Sykes. “I can’t bring him back. But I’m gonna see that you’re both taken care of properly. I promise you that.”

  Then we heard the scream of sirens as a second patrol car pulled up, followed by an ambulance. They jumped out in a hurry and ran straight over to the woman.

  “Good Lord, is this Jessie Atkins?” the ambulance driver asked as he knelt down and examined her. After the second man came with a stretcher, they carefully lifted her on to it.

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Captain Sykes. “Is she still alive?”

  “Jesus,” called out the driver, “shot by a damn negro. She’s all the governor’s got.”

  “Hurry it up,” Sykes prodded him, “or she won’t make it for sure. I think the man’s already dead. I’ve sent for another ambulance to take him in.”

  Another ambulance came five minutes later. Two men jumped out and ran over to Papa. They felt his pulse, then one of them turned back to Captain Sykes. “This guy’s still alive but probably not for much longer. Too much blood loss.” Then they carried Papa off on a stretcher and placed him in the back of the second ambulance.

  Sara hung onto Papa until the last minute but they wouldn’t let us go with him. Captain Sykes stood there holding her doll while police scurried all around looking for the gun. Finally, one of them called out from the brush, “I found it, Captain! I found it. It’s a little .22 automatic.”

  Captain Sykes took Sara and me over to another patrol car and ushered us into the back seat, then stood there looking at us, holding Sara’s doll.

  I reached over and placed my arm around Sara. She was trembling. I tried to console her, but I started to shake, too. Then Captain Sykes looked down at the doll, seeming to be embarrassed. He reached through the open door and patted her shoulder, then handed her the doll. She stopped trembling when she clutched it but I could still hear her sobbing.

  “You’ll have to go into the juvenile detention center,” Captain Sykes said apologetically. “But it won’t be for long. I’ll see to it you get placed in a good home. I’ll come and see you as soon as I get a chance. I promise.” Then he closed the door gently.

  2

  Captain Sykes did come for us, but it seemed like forever before he got there. The small room where they kept us was shabby, with two cots crowded together. At the rear wall was a tiny bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned. The cots smelled strongly of urine and stale perspiration. That wasn’t the only bad smell. The fat matron who looked after us wore a strong perfume. It smelled so sweet that it made me feel nauseous.

  We spent three whole days there, listening to the constant chattering and yelling coming from the boys’ dorm next door. It was so hot that we could only lay there. Sara spent most of the time sobbing quietly. We tried to close our eyes and sleep at night but mostly we lay awake. We didn’t even have a change of clothes; Captain Sykes had forgotten to leave our suitcase.

  When Captain Sykes finally showed up, I felt like hugging him, but he was gruff and had little to say. He herded us into the back seat of his patrol car where we sat stiffly, Sara still holding on to that big rag doll of hers. Raggedy was a sacred thing for Sara. Sara looked like a doll herself, I thought, with her big brown eyes and tangled curls. She was still wearing that same blue dress that Mama had made, but it had a big rip in it now where she’d caught it on the mesquite bush.

  Once we were all inside the patrol car, Captain Sykes reached into a paper bag and pulled out a couple of donuts. “I brought some treats for you,” he said. “My wife made ‘em special for you. There’s a couple more in the bag if you’re hungry.”

  I thanked him as I took both donuts, then handed one to Sara. There was a long silence after that, then the Captain asked me how old I was. All the way to the courthouse he kept asking me questions. It was just simple stuff, like what kind of food I liked, but it made me feel better.

  It got silent again as we pulled into a downtown parking lot. “This is the Phoenix courthouse,” said the Captain as he pointed to a building made of polished granite. “We have to see a judge in there.”

  I looked up at it and counted the stories. There were four. On the top floor there were bars on the windows, making it look like a fortress. Even the red-tile roof seemed gloomy. I felt like an orphaned ragamuffin as I got out of the patrol car, with my trousers torn at both knees and my flannel shirt minus elbows. I’d stuffed my baseball cap in my back pocket.

  “Judge Knapp is waiting,” said Captain Sykes as he lifted Sara out of the seat, causing her to drop her doll. He smiled as he handed it back to her, then turned to me. “Let’s get a move on, Curly,” he said as he turned toward the building.

  “Call me Billie,” I snapped.

  We entered the building through a swinging rear door into a room where other policeman were milling about and talking. People smiled and waved when they saw the Captain.

  “Oh, these must be the negro children from that robbery,” said a blonde, stocky man with a smile that exposed bad teeth. Then he talked in a low tone. “I’m told Jessie Atkins has lost her memory of what happened.”

  “Well we can’t blame these two for what their daddy did,” answered Captain Sykes.

  “He didn’t do it!” I shouted back. “Them other guys did. They were at that rest stop when we stopped there.”

  “That’s enough,” said Captain Sykes, “save it for the judge.”

  As Captain Sykes spoke, the stocky man peered at me, his expression changing to a schoolteacher frown. Then he turned to Captain Sykes. “Sassy one, isn’t she, Charlie? If I was you, I’d quiet her down before you go in front of Judge Knapp.” Then he looked bac
k at me again. “I’m Lacy Horne, the county attorney here. You remember that.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything to her,” said Captain Sykes, “and it doesn’t mean much to me either, Lacy. I admire her for sticking up for her dad. I wish my kid would do the same for me sometimes.” Then Captain Sykes led us down the hall, only the stocky man came walking after us.

  “Speaking of your son,” he said, “we’re closing the case on that missing girlfriend of his. We’re too damn busy on those Shanty Town murders to spend time on a runaway teenager. She’ll turn up when she’s finished bein’ mad at everybody.” He walked away without saying another word.

  “I’ve sure got an S.O.B. for a brother-in-law,” Captain Sykes mumbled as he watched Horne walk away.

  We walked down a long hallway after that. Sara hugged her doll while I stared at the wanted posters on the walls. I came to a sudden stop when I saw Papa’s picture among all the others. The picture made him look angry and mean—not at all like he really was. The words under the picture said, “CARL ‘BLACK CAT’ MORAN, ESCAPED MURDERER.” Captain Sykes reached over and tore the picture off the wall, then crumpled it and threw it in a wastebasket.

  “We don’t need this anymore,” he said. “Your dad’s not going anywhere.” Then he took on a thoughtful, almost kind expression. “I called up a deputy I know last night,” he said, “a guy in Arkansas who could tell me about your dad’s case. If it’s any comfort to you, I know he got a bad deal, Billie. He had no choice but to defend your mother. If the guy hadn’t been white, they’d never have charged him.”

  I guess he was trying to level with me, but it felt like a gut punch. I didn’t know much about the laws in Arkansas, but I knew my dad was in serious trouble. If he got sent back, I kept thinking, they’d put him in jail for life.