Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Mickey was indignant. "Now how'll I hurt your chances, Logan? I just might be able to get a shot in or something."

  "Suppose they held guns on you and Sis and told me to come out?" Mickey blanched.

  "What if they shot your arm off or held a propane torch to Sis's face until I stepped out? That's the kind of thing I worry about."

  Mickey had no arguments. He fumbled for answers, but there weren't any.

  "I can't leave you here alone, Logan. I just can't do that."

  "Sis's welfare comes first, Mick.

  "Believe me, if you could help, I'd have you tight beside me. But it would be easier if I could know you were safe and that any brush crackling or door squeaking wasn't friendly."

  "There's the farming, we've got to milk, and what'll I tell Sis?"

  "You'll handle Sis, and let your help do the work around here."

  "Maybe if you moved into the hotel?"

  "Mickey, the Geraldos have been murdering all over the world since they were boys. They are used and protected by powerful people, nations even. No Geraldo has ever been convicted. Bloomfield Center won't be a deterrent to men like these."

  "What will you do then?" Mickey's voice was desperate.

  Logan was resigned. "Well, I'll stick to this ground. I know it better than they do. Maybe I'll get a chance. Maybe ... oh hell, Mickey, let me work at it.

  "You and Sis go over to the Ruby place." Logan laughed mirthlessly. "It won't be long. Vasco will be mad and he'll be nervous. This country isn't home to him and he can't be absolutely sure how I'll jump.

  "Right now, Jorge is probably urging him to get it done. Vasco will be trying to savor the wait, but he'll be hungry and increasingly anxious. They won't wait long. Just stay away a few days."

  Logan straightened and led the way back toward the houses. He kicked at his salt block. "Deer eat it faster than I can get it out."

  He turned to Mickey and solemnly stuck out a hand.

  "Don't worry yourself down, Mick. I'm not finished yet. I figure to win this thing. I'm just not sure how."

  Mickey felt tears behind his eyes. He desperately needed to know more but Logan wanted him away, and he feared for Sis more than he could admit.

  He slapped Logan's shoulder and said he would call regularly and promised to stay distant—a little while.

  Mickey turned away, feeling the ultimate coward and traitor, but unable to see another course.

  Logan went into his house and the old screen door slammed with a sound so familiar it ripped at Mickey's soul.

  +++

  Mickey went to the old Ruby place, but he sent Sis to visit a friend in Boalsburg. Mickey settled into a side room with his Ithaca loaded with double-ought buck, his old .300 Savage by the door, and the 25/06 Varminter propped in a corner.

  Explaining to Sis had been awkward. He left it that Logan had troubles lingering from government days and nastiness could reach them. Mickey spoke about the FBI and State Police, otherwise Sis might not have gone.

  Logan had said that the Geraldos would not wait long. How long, Mickey wondered. He fumed through the rest of the day, but before dusk he couldn't stand it any longer.

  He took the deer rifle and made a slow and careful stalk of the ridgeline above their homes. The woods were natural, and birds and a doe he encountered seemed undisturbed. He wasn't sure what he could do if he found Geraldos, but the activity eased his nerves.

  He sat for a while at a spot where he could see most of their open ground. Logan came from his house, poking around with his cane.

  It wasn't proper to look at a man through a loaded rifle's telescopic sight, but Mickey figured this was an exception. Through the 4x Weaver scope, Mickey could see that Logan wore a light jacket, and Mickey guessed he had a pistol holstered underneath it. Mickey watched the flop of Logan's pant leg, but he couldn't tell if his friend had on his ankle holster.

  Logan went out to the salt block and looked around before turning back. It gave Mickey chills. Even from where he sat, the range was only 500 yards. Doddering around, Logan made a perfect target.

  Mickey Weston's sleep was spotty. He awoke from dreams he could not remember, wondering where he was. Then he would remember with a return of the sick feeling he had suffered since Vasco Geraldo had appeared.

  Mickey's mind repeated that he was just a common ordinary farmer, with no place in murder and assassinations. But, his soul cried that he must do something to help his friend. But what?

  By dawn he was up and looking out windows. All he saw was the normal bucolic country morning. No villains lurked, not that he expected any. If they were around, the Geraldos would be at Logan's.

  Despite the early hour he rang Logan's number. The phone was lifted before the second ring and Logan said, "Morning, Mick."

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "Had to be you. You've likely fretted the night away and couldn't hardly wait till the light came."

  "You heard anything?"

  Logan sighed, "No, Mickey, and I won't till happens."

  "Well, what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to do what I can. I'm not figuring to just roll over, I'll tell you about it after I'm done."

  "Dang it, Logan, can't I help out?"

  "You are helping. You'll be there if I need you. Till then, don't come over, Mick. If your timing was bad, it could put me in a vise."

  An hour later Mickey called Logan again and suggested they might find where the Geraldos slept and shoot first.

  Logan insisted the killers had been that route before and would not be found until they wished to be.

  The call did nothing for Mickey's sense of betrayal. A man stood by his friend. Everybody knew that, but for the thousandth time, how?

  Logan hung up and prepared for his morning walk. The day was brisk and would give reason for his light jacket. The .357 magnum under his arm bulged the windbreaker but also helped disguise the lines of his heavy armored vest.

  The body armor was old model and weighed a ton, but it could turn a pistol bullet or shotgun pellets. A rifle would go right on through, but maybe both Geraldos would come in close.

  Although he hadn't worn it for months, the .38 Chief's Special felt comfortable at his ankle. Logan doubted he would be able to reach it, but you never could tell.

  He picked up his cane and started for the salt block. Part way out he had hidden his shotgun and further along, his old Springfield was pressed into a half hollowed tree.

  Each day he would walk to the salt block. Sooner or later the Geraldos would come. On his own ground, Logan Dell might have a chance.

  +++

  Almost every time Mickey went to the ridge he saw Logan walking around his yard. If it had been him, he would be hidden out in the woods waiting for the killers to show. Then he would pick them off without hesitation and bury their bodies in the barnyard.

  Logan had said that the Geraldos worked alone. If they disappeared, no one would search and many would be pleased. If Logan Dell was killed? Mickey wondered if Logan's old company would then take action.

  Late on the third day, Mickey saw Logan come out on his porch and look about. After a minute he started for the salt block, picking at things with his cane, not even looking around.

  Vasco Geraldo stepped from behind a tree almost in Logan's face. He held a pistol at arm's length, pointed directly at Logan's nose.

  Mickey Weston's lunch rose in his throat and he almost vomited. He hoisted the .300 Savage and peered through the scope. The range was too long. He could try, but his hands were shaking and his vision was blurred.

  Too far, he knew. If only he had the Varminter. The 25/06 took groundhogs at almost that range, but the deer rifle wasn't sighted for it. Mickey steadied himself and sought to hold a few feet above Geraldo's head.

  Vasco's smile was cruel. "So, Sabot, the stage is set." His chuckle was a snarl. "Do I see a bulletproof vest and a pistol in a shoulder holster? How pathetic, Sabot. Jorge could shoot you through, but my bullet wil
l be first."

  Logan stood silent, gripping his cane, watchful as a snake.

  Vasco still smiled but his words were cold. "A bullet, just above the nose?" His pistol centered there. "Too easy, Sabot. To smash a knee for a brother, the second for another, and perhaps both shoulders for the third, ah, that has a touch, do you not agree?"

  Logan's voice was steady. "And what for yourself, Vasco? And nothing for Jorge who hides in the woods?"

  Geraldo nodded, "For us the eyes, Sabot. You will go to your creator sightless." He shrugged, "It seems the best we can do."

  The shot was muffled and reached Mickey long after Logan was on the ground. They went down together, Vasco Geraldo and Logan Dell—and Mickey lost his sight picture.

  He fought to get it back but other movement caught his eye, and he saw a third figure only a little below him rising to align a scoped rifle on the scene below.

  Jorge Geraldo, the brother, it had to be. Mickey Weston swung his rifle to the closer target.

  Logan Dell pointed his cane, and Vasco Geraldo laughed at the futility of it. Vasco was looking up its length when Logan touched the trigger.

  The single bullet struck Geraldo a trifle low, just on the bridge of the nose. It entered and glanced upward allowing life for another shocked and agonized instant.

  If his mind realized and his eyes registered, Vasco Geraldo saw his pistol arm fall even as Logan Dell dropped and rolled away. Then Geraldo's knees crumpled and he collapsed as though punctured. Life was gone before his body settled.

  From where he waited in ambush, Jorge Geraldo was unsure what had happened. Sabot still moved, so he shifted position to make his shot. The Mannlicher carbine had set triggers, and only the lightest touch was needed to fire. Sabot scrambled and Jorge's sights passed over him. Quickly he corrected.

  Mickey laid his cross hairs on his enemy's broad back. He fought the gun still and strained to close his mind to what he was doing.

  He felt the rifle buck, and the blast plucked at his hearing. His target arched fearfully and the man's rifle fired upward at the empty sky. A hand sought the wound before the rifle fell, and the figure sagged against a tree, then sprawled face down in the rough briars and grasses.

  Mickey's limbs shook as though palsied. Sweat drenched him and dripped into his eyes and off his fingers. He hadn't the strength to stand or even reload.

  Sudden doubt assailed him. Suppose it wasn't a Geraldo he had shot? Logan could have arranged for help Mickey did not know about.

  Mickey feared he would pass out. He saw Logan standing over Vasco Geraldo, looking toward his hill. He gathered some strength and got standing, then held his Savage over his head. He heard Logan's wolf howl and saw Logan's fist raised like a boxer in victory.

  Like a mighty tide, an indescribable relief surged through Mickey Weston. His knees were still puny and he didn't want to look at the man he had shot. He started to sit down but his stomach rose and he puked in a sour flood until only dry heaves were left.

  When he shot Vasco Geraldo, Logan went into his best evasive roll. Vasco folded so slowly that Logan feared he had missed, and cover was so distant that he could almost feel Jorge's bullet tearing through his innards.

  He was still scrabbling for protection when the first shot sent echoes rolling. Logan's body twisted in sympathetic reaction, even as a second report bounced among the hills.

  No bullet touched him, and Logan rolled behind a rock pile and searched out the source of the shooting. A couple hundred yards out, Jorge Geraldo was staggering about, his rifle falling from nerveless fingers. His body leaned into a tree, then sprawled, spread-eagled and dead looking.

  Wondering, Logan stepped into view. Could the agency have gotten a marksman to cover him? Wonder of wonders.

  When Mickey stood up, holding his old lever Savage high, Logan's heart about exploded. He felt tears at his eyes and his mind said he should have known.

  He howled in salute to Mickey and caught his answering wave. He kicked Vasco's walther pistol across the yard and made sure the man was really dead.

  Logan peeled off the heavy armored vest. He trotted across the open and up the slope with his .357 fisted. Jorge looked dead but, like other snakes, Geraldos had to be made sure of.

  Jorge was as dead as the chestnut stob he had slumped against. Mickey's hunting bullet had ripped through lung and heart. Logan picked up the fine Mannlicher and slipped Jorge Geraldo's pistol into a hip pocket before going on up to his friend.

  Part way up, Logan began thinking about Mickey—decent, kind, dependable Mickey, who found it hard to kill his own beeves and hogs. Now he had shot dead a human being. Shot him squarely in the back, against all the teachings of fair play he had been raised with. Logan Dell's soul cried for the lost innocence of his friend.

  Mickey sat cross-legged, leaning against a tree, watching Logan come. His rifle lay across his thighs, and he looked just as he did when still hunting on dozens of their deer or varmint expeditions. But Logan knew his friend's heart and the agonies that were surely tearing at it.

  Logan dropped down beside his friend. He waited until his breathing slowed.

  "Well, they're both dead, Mick." He sighed in heavy relief. "That will be the end of it. The Geraldos are gone and no one will care."

  Mickey nodded and exhaled his own relief. Logan could smell the vomit on his breath and knew he had been right. Mickey Weston wasn't easy with what he had done.

  Logan said, "I thought I was dead, Mick. Vasco had me in the open, too far from cover. If you hadn't shot, Jorge would have plugged me for sure."

  Mickey nodded understanding, but still hadn't spoken. Logan guessed he'd better get him talking. "How'd you happen to come up here, Mick? You keeping an eye on me down there?"

  Mickey's grin was pained, but it was there. "Figured you'd need help, Logan. You always do."

  Logan laughed in relief. "Yeah? Well, this time you were right. Vasco figured he had me, but he didn't know about the cane gun. I planned on that. Jorge was a different matter. If they had both come out, I had hopes for my bulletproof vest but, stuck in the open like I was, I expected Jorge wouldn't miss."

  "Damn, when your gun went off I almost felt the bullet in me." Logan laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You saved my life, Mick." He gave Mickey a soft shove. "Guess you're worth having around after all."

  +++

  They found the Geraldos' rental car parked by the old fossil pit. They drove it onto the ridge and Logan ignored Mickey's gagging as they dumped Jorge's body into the trunk. Vasco's followed, and Logan parked the car back by the fossils. He locked the car and put Vasco's car keys on top of the left front tire. Then Logan made his phone call.

  Logan said only, "Tell Jim Hanson to call Sabot. He will know the number." He hung up.

  Mickey asked, "Jim Hanson, the one who went to Carson Long?"

  "Same one, Mick. We've worked together on and off."

  "What'll he do, Logan? We've got two dead men in a car trunk. What will they do about this? Are we going to court or get interrogated or something?"

  Logan wanted to laugh, but Mickey's questions were serious. "Hanson will take care of the car and what's in it. They will all just disappear.

  "Likely someone will ask us details, just to keep the record straight. That will be the end of it. You and I'll know. Tell Sis if you want to but no one around here will believe the story anyway."

  Mickey whooshed his breath. "They sure won't. I can't hardly believe it myself."

  They drove by the fossil pits the next day and the car was gone. A day later, Jim Hanson called. He was in town, visiting the old school, and wanted to say "Hello."

  They sat on the wooden athletic field bleachers, and Hanson found where he had carved his initials long before. Logan and Mickey told their stories, and Hanson did a lot of nodding.

  He said, "You should have called in, Logan. We could have covered you."

  Logan looked scornful, "Come on, Jim. The Geraldos could smell a trap days away. The
y would have driven off and come back later."

  Hanson didn't argue. He turned to Mickey. "I guess we should have signed you up when we did Logan, Weston. With a friend like you, Dell doesn't need our agency."

  In the end he shook their hands and said, "I'm pleased it's over with, Logan. The pair of you did it right.

  "The book is closed on Sabot, Thomas E. Glynn, the Geraldos, and Logan Dell. Mickey, you will not be mentioned.

  "I'll see you when the Alumni meet and maybe more often. My boy is thinking about coming to the old school. Till then, take care of yourselves."

  Hanson got into his car and pulled up beside them. "You know, Dell, you always were a hard man to lick."

  Then he was gone.

  Mickey asked, "That's really it?"

  "That is the end of it."

  "Whew, I hope you don't have any more old enemies out there, Logan."

  "Only one, Mick."

  "What, you've got another?" Mickey was clearly agitated.

  "Only joking, Mick, only joking."

  Logan Dell shaved his beard. His canes hung unused in his study.

  +++

  1978

  Logan eased his new Buick under a tree along the edge of The Curve's parking lot. He cracked the windows, allowing heated air to escape, and closed the heavy door gently, pleasuring in the vault-like thunk of its heavy sealing.

  His eye slid along the vast run of fender. Fine car. It ate gas, but fuel shortages never affected him. He just filled up at Mickey's pump. Farmers had enough gas. The politicians would always see that the "providers for the American tables" were never short. He rarely drove far anyway.

  It was always too hot in The Curve, but a coffee crowd loitered there anyway. Mickey sat with his back toward the door, but others saw Logan's silent approach and grins began.

  Logan steepled his fingers on Mickey's balding skull and addressed the table in general.