by Len Norman
“C’mon Shelly, you don’t mean it. I love you babe.”
“The hell I don’t. Maybe your wife will take you back.”
Quentin intervened. “Let’s go, Fats. We can give you a lift someplace. It’s too damn hot to stand here and argue. Our squad car has the best air conditioning in the entire fleet.”
“If you say so.”
He got in the backseat and Quentin started the car and turned the air on high. Reg said, “What’s your pleasure Fats, your wife’s place? Maybe a buddy will let you spend the night with him? Just give us an address.”
“My other girlfriend will let me stay at her house. She lives on Sycamore Street.”
“You sure she’ll put you up for the night?” Reg asked.
“I’m positive, we get along great.”
They drove to the address Fats gave them and Reg got out of the car and knocked on the door. A lady opened it a little and peered out and Reg asked her if she knew Fats Masterson.
“I sure do. That son of a bitch dated my daughter until she found out he had a wife and another girlfriend. She told him to get lost months ago. Is that him in the backseat of your police car?”
“It is. We’re looking to find him a place to spend the night.”
“My best advice is the county jail. He sure as shit ain’t welcome here.”
Reg walked back to the car. Once inside he turned to Fats and said, “You got one more chance before I cart your ass off to jail, any other bright ideas?”
Fats put a great deal of thought into it and finally said, “My wife will be happy to see me. She’s at Happy Valley Trailer Park.”
Quentin made the drive across town and into a neighboring township. The trailer park was a dump. Trash bags all over the place and Quentin thought he saw a raccoon feasting on something inside one of them. He shined the spotlight on it, then hit the siren and watched it scamper away.
Josefina Masterson lived in a forty-five-foot trailer with a small expando that gave the kitchen/living area a little more breathing room. It was one of the shoddiest trailers in the park. The trailer lacked mobile home skirting and that gave vermin an opportunity to take shortcuts from one “home” to another. The house trailer sat on a few concrete blocks placed strategically underneath. Reg shined his flashlight under the Masterson estate and saw a skunk.
He walked up to the front door and the porch was a single wooden pallet with three more cement blocks that served as a stairway. It reminded Reg of a family vacation as a child when he was fifteen and visited Kentucky with his parents after a distant relative died and reportedly left money to his mother. They went home with nothing but a lasting impression of Kentucky rural living.
Reg looked back at the patrol vehicle and it appeared Quentin was yelling at Fats, who was still seated in back. It was Reg’s deepest desire that Josefina would take Fats off their hands. Reg stood on the pallet next to the cement blocks and knocked sharply on the door with his nightstick. Josefina answered the door, and Reg’s first reaction was the ghastly trick nature had played on this woman. She was a giant and her abnormal body growth clearly distorted her facial features. Josefina’s jaw protruded in a way Reg never thought possible. She suffered from failing eyesight as well as joint and muscle pain. Her untreated Acromegaly led to excessive perspiration and offensive body odor. She was barrel chested and honestly made Ma Kettle look like a knockout. Another thing, Josefina despised her estranged husband Fats with a passion.
“You must be Mrs. Masterson?”
“What of it?”
“We have your husband Fats in the backseat. He’s been drinking and we were hoping he could spend the night with you. He said you wouldn’t mind.”
“That bastard! I’ll kill him.” She vaulted over the wooden pallet and ran toward the patrol car. Within a few seconds she was beating her mammoth fists on the window near Fats. “Let me at him!”
Fortunately for Fats the back doors were both locked. Reg opened his door and dove in the front seat, fearing whatever Josefina had might be contagious. “Get us the hell out of here right now.” He turned around and looked in the backseat. “You lying dink, you’re under arrest!”
Quentin placed the car in drive and gave it some gas and the left rear tire nearly ran over Josefina’s foot. He continued driving and she was actually trying to hang on. She was beating the trunk of the squad car before falling face first on the dirt path called Happy Lane, which served as the main thoroughfare of the trailer park. They passed a sign promising cheap monthly rates and plenty of vacant lots for galvanized condo living.
By the time they reached the police station Reg had calmed down and they walked Fats into the booking room. Reg told Fats they should’ve arrested him in the first place instead of wasting valuable time.
“You probably should’ve. At least then the arrest would have been legal. You guys really screwed the pooch,” Fats said.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Reg asked.
“You dumbasses placed me under arrest outside your legal jurisdiction. Happy Valley Trailer Park is in the township about a mile or so outside of Riverside.”
“Horseshit! You were in the car the entire time, which happens to be city property. The rubber tires insulated you from ever being outside of Riverside. The only one that was in the Township was me when I walked to the trailer. The arrest was legal. Anybody with a lick of common sense knows that much.”
“I want to call my lawyer. I get one call. Can I see a phonebook?”
Quentin pushed the phone across the desk and handed Fats the phonebook. He didn’t call a lawyer, having already decided he’d plead guilty to the chickenshit drunk charge. Fats was a comedian. He’d just dialed his friend’s number and was listening to the phone ring. He figured Speed McCullough would be home and he was right.
“Hello,” Speed said.
“Hey! I wanted to let you know, I just got arrested. The cops are looking for a bad motherfucker and a retard. They got me so you might want to grab your crayons and your helmet and run like hell!”
Smurf Man
1985
Wilber Hamer was driving his 1977 Oldsmobile Toronado. He loved the long, sleek profile and concealed headlamps, but the best thing was it had plenty of room for all of his friends. Not only did they like to ride in the front seat with him, they liked to sit inches from the windshield; all fourteen of them. He always travelled with his best friends and he dearly loved those Smurfs.
They were equally spaced apart and some faced oncoming cars while others faced Wilber. He began talking to the Smurfs several months ago and darned if they didn’t start talking right back. At first he thought it was the radio, but when he turned the radio off the voices continued. The voices were tiny and unusual, just like the Smurfs, and they surely did know things. They knew a lot of things and Wilber listened and learned.
A week or so after they began to speak, the ones facing traffic would look for things, and they’d tell him what to watch for and sometimes where to go. None of this surprised him and he appreciated the help. Wilber was a bona fide child molester and he’d been at it for decades, and what had been a couple of incidents every year had now escalated. Now he was at it on a monthly basis.
Wilber knew where his bread was buttered and told Frisky as much. He looked at Frisky and wondered how anything so small could be so gosh darn smart. He was facing Wilber and all the others were on reconnaissance, and of course their backs were turned on him, so to speak.
“I’ll tell you, Frisky, I was nothing before I met you and the others.”
The diminutive figure appeared to wink before saying, “Fucking-A big boy. Not all of the kids that watch us on TV can be trusted. They might be tykes, but they’re still threats. Leastwise that’s what I think. We want to point them out to you, and if you can find some measure of satisfaction when scolding them, so be it.”
It occurred to him that it would be wise to never cross the Smurfs. Some days he wondered if he was the puppet or the pupp
eteer. “I do enjoy cautioning the children and most times it leads to plenty of enjoyment.” He felt something stir and very soon it would be erect. “The children probably like it as well, or one would think.”
“You better hang a left,” Sprog piped in. “There’s one within five hundred feet, give or take—a girl, I think.”
Wilber did as he was told and sure enough, a girl no older than nine years old was walking just ahead of him. It didn’t matter if it was a boy or a girl; Wilber found both flavors scrumptious. And speaking of scrumptious, that Smurf was now turning around. At first Wilber was frightened but had no idea why.
“You really are a limp dick. You know that, right?” Scrumptious asked.
“Try to be nice,” Wilber said back. “I might have a urine infection for all you know.”
“Whatever gets you through the night. A lot of guys your age have wet dreams. The last few wet dreams you had were from bed wetting. For all the good that thing does…you might want to cut it off. There’s a knife in the glove box.”
Wilber knew Scrumptious was full of shit. He never kept things like that in his car. The cops frequently stopped him and he didn’t want to give them any more reason to mess with him than what they already had.
“You’re full of it.”
“Take a look in the glove box. I dare you.”
Wilber pulled over to the curb and opened the glove box and there it was: a good-sized butcher knife. The handle alone was six inches long, and the deadly blade was razor sharp. It frightened Wilber beyond belief. He looked at the maligned blue figurine and wondered out loud, “How did that get in the glove box? I never put it there. I don’t even own a knife like that.”
“Settle down fuck face. It’s just a knife,” Scrumptious said.
Wilber held it in his hand and suddenly felt the need to pee as he dropped the knife on the floor mat. The girl was now looking at him. He rolled down the passenger window and called her to the car. She walked slowly toward Sprog, Frisky, Scrumptious, and the others.
The girl had been warned about the Smurf Man. Her parents, teachers, and even the police officers that routinely spoke at school cautioned her, but she now seemed powerless to run away. Her eyes only saw the Smurfs. She saw all of them, but was now focused on Sprog and Scrumptious. Any semblance of logic had faded when Wilber rolled the window down. She knew better, but simply had to see those pint-sized scoundrels. She was now at the open window of the Toronado.
“What are their names?”
Wilber pointed at each one as he named them. “This is Sprog and Scrumptious. The others are Frisky, Delightful, and Libido.” Before he could name the rest a cop walked up to the driver’s door.
Victor hated Smurfs and detested Wilber a shitload more than the way he felt about those tiny troublemakers. All the cops held Wilber in great disdain, but Victor really loathed the Smurf Man. It would be fair to say that at this particular point in time Wilber was about to have a bad day.
Victor addressed the little girl. “Now sweetie, you know you shouldn’t be around this car, don’t you?”
She looked at him and nodded her head. “Am I in trouble?” She wanted to hold Sprog a little longer. Wilber was hopeful the cop wouldn’t notice the butcher knife on the floor.
“You are most definitely not in trouble. I think it best that you head for home.”
She held the Smurf a little higher and said, “Can I keep Sprog?”
“I don’t think so, honey. Sprog is full of germs and you might get cooties. Just go home now, okay?” Victor asked.
The little girl was back on the sidewalk and she walked away. Slowly at first, and then she walked a little faster and the hypnotic effect that Sprog once had lessened with each step. She was soon out of sight and Victor was grateful. He had plans for the Smurf Man. Big plans.
Victor was holding a tiny thing in his hand, and as he cleared his throat Wilber looked at Victor, carefully avoiding eye contact.
“You know what this is?”
“It looks like a Smurf. Is it?” Wilber asked.
“It surely is and his name is Funny. I brought him here just for you. Would you like him…for your collection? He could ride on the dashboard.”
“I would officer. Why is his name Funny?”
“Well, I guess he’s Funny because I am. I bought him in a store and named him Funny. Did you know I’m funny?”
“Why are you funny?” Wilber asked.
“I don’t know, but everyone thinks I am. Do you think I’m funny?”
“Sure.”
Now Victor walked back to his car. He had better things to think about. Things like justice, comeuppance, and guns. Not just any gun…a special gun. He always had a distinctive gun for special occasions. The revolver had the serial numbers filed off and what was left had been given the acid treatment. He was now again walking toward the Smurfmobile.
“You should know that my kids want to watch that cartoon show on Saturdays, but I won’t let them.”
“Why not?”
“Because every time I see one of those bastards I think of you. I think how you use those blue troll wannabes to pick up kids, get them in your car, and do things to them. Tell the truth, you like kids don’t you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m not sure what to say.”
“Just stick with the truth. Most people find that to be the easiest pathway to success.”
“Yes.”
“Yes? You like kids?”
Wilber looked down. All thoughts of the knife were gone. For the first time in weeks he wasn’t even thinking about Smurfs. “Yes. I like kids.”
Victor was ready. He thought it best to take Wilber to a happy place. It would serve as an ice breaker. Victor was holding Funny and he gave him to Wilber. “I want you to have Funny. I hope whenever you look at him, you’ll think of me…someone that is funny. Can you do that?”
Wilber beamed from ear to ear. It was the happiest he’d been in a long time, a very long time indeed. “I sure can! I already think Funny is one of my favorite Smurfs.”
“I can tell. The way you’re holding him, and stroking that rat shit hair of his.”
“Huh?”
Victor had already moved on. He placed his throw-away gun on the dashboard in front of Victor. He spoke slowly in measured words. “Pick up the gun. Your time is up. Go for it. The gun that is, let’s do it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do! You went for the gun and I had to shoot you. It all happened so fast. The best part will be how kids no longer have to be leery of the Smurf Man.”
“NOOOOOO!”
Victor reached inside the car and grabbed Wilber’s hand. Victor made Wilber touch the gun. Victor’s gun was now touching the side of Wilber’s head. “Pick that gun up and hold it in your hand for chrissakes.”
Wilber did as he was told, and Victor was elated. “When you’re dead and gone the world will be a far better place. You can take that to the bank. Now hold the gun nice and steady when you point it at me. I want you to shoot me now.”
“Please. I just wanna go home. Let me go home. Okay?”
“OKAY? DID YOU REALLY SAY OKAY? TIMES UP! TRY AND SHOOT ME. DON’T TRY AND SHOOT ME. EITHER WAY I’M GONNA SHOOT YOUR ASS!!”
The Smurf Man fainted. Victor gazed at him. “I guess I really am funny,” he said. “FUNNY!! The guys are right. Everybody’s right. I AM FUNNY.”
The Double Bubble
1966
Harley received his North Carolina driver’s license in the autumn of 1966 and with that the sense of complete freedom, and why not? He rarely attended classes and his aunt increased his allowance. Harley was worth millions and within less than five years he’d have control of his entire trust fund. He figured Uncle Simon had skimmed thousands of dollars in administration fees from the fund throughout the years. His Aunt Caroline was the only family he had in the world and she managed to marry a real piece of work. His uncle was a thieving philanderer whose days wou
ld soon be numbered. Simon was in Harley’s sights. That was pretty much a given after the Hawaii vacation when he showed his true colors.
Harley bought his first car in late November and he paid cash. He certainly could’ve afforded any car he wanted, but he preferred the 1964 Valiant Barracuda manufactured by Plymouth with the enormous wraparound rear window. He liked the sporty interior and bucket seats. It had a backseat that seated three or could be folded down for cargo space. The padded dash and push-button radio were added options. That car cost less than twenty-five hundred dollars brand new and his was eighteen months old and only had seven thousand miles on it. He paid nineteen hundred and drove it all the way to the Eight of Hearts.
That Barracuda served him well and with mobility came a freedom to come and go as he pleased. Other students had their own cars as well and most of them were flashier than Harley’s car. He could’ve cared less. As a matter of fact, Harley cared nothing about what others thought of him. He was ready to see more of North Carolina and the cost was only thirty-two cents a gallon. He left school during Christmas break to visit his aunt. He lit out on Friday morning, two days before Christmas. The roads were clear and he had plenty of time to himself.
News items from the Gastonia Monitor, December 24, 1966:
Owner Found Dead in Laundromat
Gastonia police were called to the Double Bubble Laundromat late Friday evening when a nude body was found in a large commercial clothes dryer. The dryer was still running when a customer made the discovery. Laundromat owner Carl Freeman was dead when the police arrived. Mr. Freeman’s dry clothes were lying in an adjacent dryer. Lieutenant Harper ruled out robbery as a motive. The day’s receipts were still in the cash register and the machine coin boxes were untouched. Lieutenant Harper said, “This is clearly a homicide and we’re not sure if he was alive when someone placed him in the dryer. It appears the dryer was set for the maximum time. Whoever did this went to a great deal of trouble washing Mr. Freeman’s clothes and drying them separately.”
Gastonia Chief of Police, Phillip Copeland said, “In thirty-plus years of police work I have never come across anything quite this strange. We may very well be dealing with a lunatic. We have our detectives working on this and they’ll continue throughout the holiday weekend doing their utmost to find the killer.”