Finding 52

by Len Norman

  He turned to the fifth player and said, “That last shot did make a mess. You look a little green around the gills.”

  The man gazed up from the poker table and said, “Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die…”

  Harley walked up behind him and said, “Hush, this will just take a second or so.”

  He cocked the hammer and let the Ruger do the rest. All five were dead and they had it coming. It was either them or Harley. He nonchalantly walked across the room as he reloaded the Ruger. Harley nudged Leland with his foot. Leland looked up as he was dying.

  “What did we do? Why did you shoot me?” Leland asked.

  “You know why. You tried to set me up. Those guys were REAL people. All five of them. They each get a card. You get a second bullet for helping them. You brought me here. All of this is on you.”

  Harley held the gun to Leland’s forehead and said, “Thanks for playing,” as he squeezed the trigger.

  He placed a playing card next to each of the five card players and walked out the front door with his head held up high.

  Harley got in the Barracuda and headed out of town. He hated the REAL people more than anything in the world, but troublemakers like Leland ran a close second. It was best to move on before the police showed up.

  Harley drove by a recreation area with a lake and nearby marina. It was four in the morning. After pulling into a parking spot near the boat launch he opened the panel on the passenger door and removed the cache of handguns. He walked to the end of a dock and threw all of the handguns into the lake, including the Ruger that performed so well only hours earlier. The plunking noise as the guns hit the water sounded like progress to him; it really was time to move on.

  He drove to Denton, Texas, and found a truck stop where he pulled in and took a nap. He woke up a couple of hours later and found a used car lot and the salesman was happy to buy the Barracuda. Harley didn’t care that the salesman only offered six hundred for the car.

  His next stop was the bus station and a ride to Dallas. He spent two days there resting up, and then purchased an airline ticket to Philadelphia. It was time for a real change of scenery.

  Harley decided a vacation was in order after the mess he left in Wichita Falls. He purchased a ticket to London and took plenty of cash with him. He was eager to try out his false identification, credit cards, and passport.

  He loved the Essex countryside and was impressed with the Kelvedon Hatch Secret Nuclear Bunker, built in 1952. It was designed with the capacity of holding well over five hundred military and civilian personnel in the event of nuclear war, but it did nothing to provide security for the man from Bedworth who was also visiting that same day. He died with a card in his hand.

  Harley spent six months in England and enjoyed the culture and sights that Scotland and Ireland had to offer as well. He travelled to France and Belgium for short stays and a couple more cards were left in places where Harley once stood.

  A few months later he was in Montpelier, Vermont, as he watched President Nixon on national television raising hell about Vietnam. The Commander-in-Chief was announcing the invasion of Cambodia and a need to draft countless soldiers; one hundred and fifty thousand more would be needed to increase the war effort. Naturally, this sparked massive war protests and rallies throughout the country.

  Four days later trouble was brewing in Ohio on the campus of Kent State University. Five hundred students were protesting near the grassy knoll in the center of the campus. The new business in Cambodia was the latest catalyst for dissent. The National Guardsman had bayonets fixed to their M1 rifles and when the smoke cleared four students were dead and another nine were wounded.

  An investigation at the direction of the President concluded the action taken by the guardsmen was unwarranted, unnecessary, and inexcusable. While some guardsmen were indicted all charges were set aside due to lack of evidence. The trampled Queen of Hearts on campus went completely unnoticed.

  Vice President Agnew resigned in October of 1973 after serving four years and looking down his nose at critics of the Vietnam War in general and the press in particular. He faced deep scrutiny for financial misdeeds and eventually entered a plea of no contest for income tax evasion—just like Al Capone.

  The very next year, Agnew’s mentor followed his lead. President Richard Nixon threw in the towel in August of 1974. The Watergate shenanigans led to his eventual downfall. America had no love for a dishonest president but there was so much more to this particular puzzle. Flimflam was his true profession. His paranoia and penchant for dirty tricks were always in the background…guiding him and the presidency to new lows. The Watergate scandal and cover-up may have finally caught him, but his crimes were numerous and viewed as deplorable. His legacy was a traumatized and perplexed nation.

  Harley loved it and followed the downfall of both men. He was especially fond of Nixon’s, “I am not a crook,” declaration at a press conference in the midst of charges concerning the Watergate break-in and ensuing dishonor.

  While all of that was going on the killing continued and Harley was in no hurry. He believed slow and steady would win the race and thought it best to pace himself. He was drawn to Charles Whitman and his heinous exploits in 1966. Whitman introduced America to a new form of random violence in Austin, Texas. After killing his mother and wife, he climbed the University of Texas Tower and for the next hour and a half managed to kill fourteen more people and injured dozens more. Harley liked his style but thought the guy could have spread the misery out over a period of months and hopefully years instead of ninety minutes. Harley wouldn’t make the same mistake. He’d take all of the time that was needed to complete his assignment: saving his own ass from the REAL people—the only ones that could harm him.

  By 1975 he was one-suited with only thirteen cards to go. He’d saved the best for last: Spades. Harley wondered how long it would take to deal the last card—the Ace. He wondered what the person would be like. Until then the Two of Spades was next.

  Jimmy Hoffa and Game Six

  1975

  Nearly two years to the day of America ending its military involvement in Vietnam in 1973, South Vietnam capitulated following the fall of its capital city. Ho Chi Minh’s dream of a unified and communist Vietnam finally came true.

  Over fifty-eight thousand Americans were killed and another hundred and fifty-three thousand wounded. Brave Americans that fought for their country…all of them were heroes. A conservative estimate of Vietnamese civilians that were killed would top the two million mark and plenty more; some believed four million Vietnamese civilians died. The North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong, combined, number of killed during the conflict were well over a million soldiers.

  War is hell and Harley was pure hell. On the day South Vietnam surrendered, Harley took two lives in Kosciusko, Mississippi. Outwardly they seemed like a very nice elderly couple drinking iced tea on their front porch. It was an unusually warm day in April. They appeared harmless, but Harley knew better. REAL people came in all shapes and sizes. He murdered them quickly as they sat on their porch in broad daylight. Harley continued on in his merry way, northbound in his brand-new Chevy Camaro Z28.

  In late July, Harley found himself in suburban Detroit. He was eating dinner at Machus Red Fox Restaurant in Bloomfield Township. It was later rumored Hoffa was expecting to meet two high-ranking mafia leaders that day at the Red Fox. The very next day news reports mentioned the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. The powerful head of the Teamsters Union would never be seen again.

  A day or so later, Harley got wind of the Hoffa incident. He chuckled to himself as he thought, at least in this case, he wasn’t involved. He worked on the timeline and by his own estimate Hoffa disappeared three hours before Harley had arrived for dinner. Small world, Harley thought.

  In the next five years he took care of business from California to West Virginia and from New Mexico to Canada, seven cities in all.

  Harley was twenty-five minutes southeast of Los Ang
eles on a beautiful afternoon in August of 1976. He was in Downey, home of the first Taco Bell restaurant, and as he pulled into the parking lot he spied one of them immediately. The man was getting into his car, and Harley followed him. They drove past a sign that proclaimed Downey as the hometown of Karen and Richard Carpenter. Harley was singing the lyrics of “We’ve Only Just Begun” as he drove past the oldest standing McDonalds restaurant in the world and he continued to sing.

  Traffic was surprisingly light. Harley was in the right-hand lane and he and the man both stopped at a red light. Harley honked the horn and made a motion for the man to roll down his window and pointed at the car’s right front tire. The man reached across the front seat of his car and rolled down the window to hear what Harley had to say. “The tire’s fine, but this is for you,” Harley said as he pointed the gun and shot the man in the face. Harley waited for the light to turn green and drove on dispassionately—leaving one of his many victims and a playing card behind.

  Later that same year Harley found another. He was driving outside Elko, Nevada, and was stopped at an intersection. A car drove past him and the headlights from Harley’s car were all he needed to see that the woman riding in the passenger seat was a serious threat to his survival.

  A man was driving and there were three children in the backseat. Harley followed them at a safe distance. They were in a rural area and he couldn’t believe his good fortune. A train was five hundred feet from the crossing and the warning signals were flashing, but there were no crossing gates. The car in front of Harley stopped and so did he, inches from the rear bumper.

  It was all in the timing and Harley’s was perfect. The train was around seventy-five feet from the crossing and Harley pushed that family sedan right in the center of the tracks. The driver tried to apply his brakes, but Harley’s car had plenty of horsepower. The force of impact was so severe it took a couple of hours to remove the victims from the demolished car. The man and the children were just another example of collateral damage; the price of doing business with Harley.

  Immediately after the crash Harley turned around and drove back the way he came. The front end of his car was damaged a little but both headlights were still working and that was good news. He drove back to Elko and abandoned the car in a residential area. Even if the police figured things out, the car would be traced back to one of his many other identities.

  Playing cards were found next to dead people in Bettendorf, Iowa, and St. Albans, West Virginia. On the very same day Reg and Phoebe celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary, Harley struck pay dirt in Clovis, New Mexico. A homeless person with fire in his eyes and hatred in his heart only had to look at Harley once and his fate was sealed. He was bludgeoned to death behind the public library.

  Harley arrived in Petoskey, Michigan, three days after Saddam Hussein became the fifth President of Iraq. Harley had travelled to Petoskey before and thought the northern Michigan city was one of America’s best-kept secrets. The downtown area was snuggled on the shores of Little Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan.

  He always stayed at the hotel in the downtown area and one day he saw a wrecker driver in the hotel lobby. There was no question in his mind; the wrecker driver was one of them. He was leaving town along the scenic 31 route near Lake Michigan. Harley followed him in his 1977 Pontiac Trans Am that was as black as Harley’s own heart. The drive along highway 31 between Petoskey and Charlevoix was one of the most scenic drives Harley knew. Lake Michigan was on his right and the panoramic views were something he always looked forward to…except for now. He was figuring ways to get that wrecker driver, and as he accelerated and passed the wrecker he was soon a mile ahead with plenty of time to put on a play.

  ******

  The wrecker driver was headed to Charlevoix to meet his wife for lunch. After lunch he’d do a couple of quick repossessions and that would be the extent of his work day. He could see the black Trans Am that had passed him doing at least ninety. He thought it served him right…anybody driving that fast deserved car trouble. The driver of the Trans Am was flagging him down. The thought of a quick service call paid in cash and off the books pleased him.

  The hood was up on the Trans Am and Harley was waving his arms at the sight of the wrecker. The wrecker driver pulled over and got out.

  “The engine quit running. Can you help me?” Harley asked.

  “You out of gas?”

  “Nope, but you’re out of time.” Harley swung the tire jack that had been hidden behind his leg. He swung for the seats as Babe Ruth had done so often. HOME RUN!! The single blow was fatal and the wrecker driver was dead before he hit the ground. Harley turned around and drove back to Petoskey. Passing cars only saw a wrecker pulled over because Harley had the good sense to drag the body out of sight. The police found the body two hours later and by then, Harley had checked out of his hotel and was already driving in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula headed for Canada.

  Harley was at a hotel convention site in Buffalo when the elevator door opened. It had stopped at the third floor and the realtor got on. He greeted Harley and they rode the elevator to the lobby. Harley didn’t have time to follow the realtor because the hotel limo was waiting for him at the entrance and Harley’s car was in the parking area, minutes away.

  His second choice was to ask if they could share the limo to the airport. He went with his first choice. “That was a great convention. I never did get your business card.” Harley was as brazen as he was confident. The convention had nothing to do with him being in Buffalo.

  The realtor looked at him and seemed surprised at first. He reached into his shirt and retrieved a gold-embossed business card and handed it to Harley.

  “This is great! I’m actually looking for a place to buy or rent in the Hamilton area and you’re from there. What a coincidence.”

  “If you’re serious, we have plenty of high-end listings. Keep me in mind.” The realtor got into the limo and was soon out of sight.

  “You can count on it,” but the realtor was long gone.

  Harley met the realtor in the evening to view the overpriced apartment. It afforded a great view of the Hamilton, Ontario, skyline. Harley was more interested in the realtor than any property Canada had to offer. He had the Ten of Spades in his shirt pocket.

  They were on the balcony of the seventh-floor apartment. The skyline really was impressive but Harley was focused on the parking lot. He looked down and saw several parked cars but not a person in sight. He made his move.

  “Do you think this balcony is secure? Would the owner consider installing new and sturdier railings? Perhaps something higher?”

  The realtor walked over to the railing and looked down. “I see your point.”

  “That’s right and now you’ll feel it.” Harley shoved him off the balcony.

  The realtor briefly screamed before landing on the roof of a utility van. He bounced once and simply laid there in a heap of death. He had left his business card on the kitchen counter as was customary when the apartment had a showing. Harley left his card, the Ten of Spades, next to it before leaving. On the drive back to New York he listened to game six of the World Series. The Philadelphia Phillies had just won their first baseball championship when Tug McGraw struck out Royals slugger Willie Wilson on a fastball. Harley smiled and thought to himself, you just gotta believe.

  The King of Spades and Chernobyl

  1984-1986

  Harley had just purchased his ticket for Police Academy at the Cinema in Shawnee, Kansas. He stopped to look at the poster for the movie he was about to watch. The poster was one large group picture of unusual cops. Football player Bubba Smith was in the back row, far right, holding flowers and wearing his hat at an angle. The poster advertised Police Academy – What an Institution! It also described the new recruits: Call them slobs. Call them jerks. Call them gross. Just don’t call them when you’re in trouble.

  Harley was sitting in the theatre laughing at the zany cops. The place was only half-filled, but sounds of
laughter saturated the theatre. Harley wondered if cops really could be like that; he had never thought about them much before in that way.

  He did enjoy taunting them from time to time. Just last year he sent the Portland Police Department a Polaroid picture of a homicide victim lying next to a Portland city fire truck. A note was stapled to the picture…looks like I put HIS fire out. A Jack of Spades playing card was in the same envelope as the picture. He had cut the eye out of the One-Eyed-Jack to give them something to think about.

  Harley had gone through life without any real concern for police officers. He more or less thought of the profession as nothing more than paid ruffians that served as minions to high-ranking government officials. All things being equal, he could take them or leave them. Harley was not one to worry about authority. He answered to a higher authority—saving his own ass and getting to the last card. Notions of the Ace of Spades and who would receive it were never far from his thoughts.

  He left the theatre and walked to the parking lot. His 1983 Mazda RX-7 was loaded with all the goodies and he enjoyed the nine-second 0-to-60 best of all. As he was leaving the city of Shawnee he passed a house and saw someone cutting the grass. Three days later an envelope arrived at the Shawnee City Police Department. The Queen of Spades was in the envelope along with a note…I waited until she finished cutting the grass.

  On April 26, 1986, Harley dealt the King of Spades. It happened rather quickly in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was nearly uneventful; he saw the pedestrian and immediately understood. A quick ride around the block and he was able to build up some pretty good speed. The ten-year-old boy died on the way to the hospital.