“Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat,” Willie said. “When you going after Charley?”
“Why would I tell you?” Erv said, looking at Willie, who had a face that looked like a turnip itself, if viewed from the right angle.
“Because,” Willie replied. It seemed to him sufficient reason.
“You got a mouth like a sieve, and you eat like you have nine assholes,” Erv said, those being two of the milder criticisms he could make of Willie Locust, his one employee.
“Yeah, but I ain’t aiming to eat Charley, I’d like to watch you mow him down like a weed,” Willie said.
“He got loose from ’em in Tulsa, I figure he’ll be going to his brother’s one of these days to pick up his girlfriend,” Erv said. “He must like the little gal, or he wouldn’t have packed her all the way down to Bradley Floyd’s to get well.”
“Is his brother a nice fella?” Willie asked. “I’ve heard he’s not bad.”
“He ain’t—I cut hay with Bradley twice,” Erv said.
“I doubt he’ll appreciate it if you mow his brother down like a weed,” Willie said.
“Stop talking like that,” Erv Kelley said. “I ain’t aiming to mow nobody down. If you point a Tommy gun at some crook and give ’em time to take a good look at it, you won’t have to mow ’em down. Most crooks would rather surrender than be cut in two by a Tommy gun.”
“Charley Floyd don’t aim to be taken alive, though,” Willie reminded him. “It says that in all the stories.”
“Stories are one thing, and starin’ down the barrel of a Tommy gun is another,” Erv said.
“Let me go with you,” Turnip Breath said. “I won’t ask for none of the reward. I just wanna see you catch him.”
“You can’t be eatin’ no turnips, if I let you come,” Erv Kelley said.
“Okay,” Willie agreed.
“Why not?” he asked, a little later.
“’Cause they don’t call you Turnip Breath for nothin’,” Erv said, looking at him sideways.
Erv had been a track star, a football star, and still played on the town baseball team. He was fast on his feet, and the best-looking man in Clebit, by a long shot. Willie often wondered what it would be like to be as handsome as Erv Kelley. He knew that he himself was nothing much to look at. All his life he’d had to rely on smarts.
Two days later, stretched out in some wet weeds right by the gate to Bradley Floyd’s farm and holding a ten-gauge shotgun Erv had told him to keep ready in case the Tommy gun failed to work, Willie began to get the sense that he had somehow mislaid his smarts. It was drizzling rain, foggy, and cold. Worse yet, their quarry was actually there—through the drizzle, they could see Pretty Boy Floyd himself, loading suitcases into a green Pontiac. Two young women were running in and out of the house, carrying clothes to the car.
“How’d they get so many clothes, living way out here?” Willie asked.
“Be still—how many times do I have to tell you not to talk?” Erv said. He himself felt confident. Within a few minutes, he was quite sure, he would have captured the most wanted outlaw in Oklahoma; maybe the most wanted anywhere. Charley Floyd was dressed in a suit and tie, and didn’t appear to have a care in the world. Once he got the suitcases in the car, he stood talking to his brother and sister-in-law. Bradley wore overalls, and Bessie, whom Erv knew slightly, was holding hands with him. That surprised Erv a little—Amity wasn’t at all eager to hold hands with him.
Willie “Turnip Breath” Locust was wishing he had stayed put and run the filling station. He would rather be reading oil sticks and wiping windshields dry than lying in a ditch holding a shotgun, waiting to be plugged by Pretty Boy Floyd. For some reason, his confidence in Erv Kelley had evaporated. Previously, he had assumed that Charley Floyd would be the one killed, but somehow his thinking on the matter had reversed itself. Now he assumed that he and Erv would be killed, and within the next few minutes, too. The young women were both in the car; Charley was just handing some money to his sister-inlaw.
Then Charley got in the car, and started it up. The car made a circle, then moved slowly down the muddy road toward the gate, which was closed to keep Bradley’s milk cows from wandering off. A couple of milk cows were standing not thirty yards away, looking like they would eagerly wander off if someone would only open the gate.
“I’m gettin’ nervous,” Willie admitted.
“Why?” Erv whispered. “We got him just where we want him.”
“I might shoot a girl,” Willie said. “I’d rather not shoot a girl.”
“You ain’t shootin’ nobody!” Erv reminded him, emphatically. “I’m gonna do the shootin’, if there is any. He’ll have to get out and open the gate, then he’ll drive through, and then he’ll have to get out again and shut the gate. When he starts to latch the gate, he’ll have to put his shoulder into it—that’s when I’ll stand up and arrest him.”
“What if he lets one of the girls open the gate and then shut it?” Willie asked. “They ain’t doin’ nothin’, why couldn’t one of ’em jump out and do it?”
Erv didn’t bother to answer. He was thoroughly sorry he had allowed Willie to come. It would have been better just to have done the job himself. He had brought Willie along to make conversation, but Willie had been too cold to talk and hadn’t said two words during the whole night. Now, just when it was time to concentrate on the task at hand, Willie would start jabbering. The best course seemed to be to ignore him.
The gate the car had to pass through was a barbed-wire gate, stretched tight, and Bradley Floyd was known for keeping his farm, including his fences and gates, in good repair.
Charley Floyd stopped the green Pontiac a few yards from the gate, and got out to open it. He moved carefully, so as not to get too much mud on his shoes. One of the milk cows started over, but Charley picked up a stick and threw it at her. The cow stopped.
When Charley got back in the Pontiac, Erv switched off the Tommy gun’s safety catch. Charley was whistling “The Wabash Cannonball” when he got out of the car the second time. He was a good whistler. Charley picked up the gate and got ready to latch it, not suspecting a thing.
The second Charley put his shoulder against the gate stick, getting ready to put the wire loop over the top of the stick, Erv Kelley stood up, his Tommy gun at the ready.
“Leave the gate go, Charley,” Erv said. “Get them hands up, or this game’s over.”
“Drive, Beulah!” Charley yelled. Then he finished shutting the gate, looking at Erv steadily as he did.
Erv had always heard that Charley Floyd was fast, but he had been the best sprinter in the region himself and supposed he didn’t have to apologize to anyone when it came to speed. The puzzling thing wasn’t that Charley was on the running board of the car in a flash, or that the car was moving toward him, or that Charley had produced a gun from somewhere and was firing it at him; the puzzling thing was that he himself had slowed down—stopped, in fact. He’d had his finger on the trigger of the Tommy gun before he called out to Charley, and the safety was off. But Charley Floyd was on the running board of the car before the Tommy gun fired its first round. Erv thought he hit Charley in the side, but before he could be sure, he himself was spinning around. He was facing down the road; his head went down and up; he confused the earth with the sky for a moment—all before the Tommy gun began to spit a continuous stream of bullets, as it was supposed to. The stream wasn’t spitting at Charley Floyd, though. As Erv turned and turned, trying to get his feet straightened out—trying to face toward the oncoming car—the machine gun spewed up dirt as it cut a circular furrow into the ground, a furrow deep enough, it seemed to him, to plant corn in, or even a spud. He couldn’t stop the gun—it jerked so he could scarcely hang onto it, spitting bullets into the ground in a circle around his feet.
His eyes began to get filmy, as the gun kept jerking. It was as if Turnip Breath had started washing his eyes as he would a windshield. But then Willie had got weak-minded and wandered off to check the oil
or something, leaving a slick, soapy film over his eyes. The film made it hard to see Charley, or the car. Soon, the film made it hard to see anything. Erv was glad when the Tommy gun stopped firing. Then he saw something green and wet, so close to his head it was almost touching his eyeball.
Erv Kelley thought it might be grass—grass wet with rain—but the film on his eyes was so thick that he couldn’t be sure.
13
“Good God, it’s Erv Kelley!” Bradley said, looking down at the dead man.
“Oh my God, he killed Erv!” Bessie shrieked. They had both run down to the gate through the mud when they heard the shooting. Charley was pointing a pistol at a little turnip-faced man who had been hiding in the ditch. The little man was as wet as if he had swum a river, and he was shaking badly in anticipation of being killed.
Beulah and Rose were crying hysterically, and Charley looked stunned. The dead man’s Tommy gun had cut a circle in the grass at his feet. He had stumbled out of the circle when he fell. Brad had opened the gate again, and two of the milk cows had walked through it while they were all looking down at the dead man. After staggering around, Erv Kelley had fallen on his back. They could all see that Charley had hit him twice—dead center—in his chest.
“Shut his eyes, shut his eyes, can’t you?” Bessie said, covering her own.
Charley squatted down, and closed Erv Kelley’s eyes.
“Who was Erv Kelley? I never heard of him,” he said.
“He was sheriff for a while,” Bradley said. “I farmed with him a little. Then he give up being a sheriff, and opened a filling station with Turnip Breath here.”
“Turnip Breath?” Charley said, looking up at the young man.
“Willie’s my real name,” Willie admitted. “Turnip Breath’s just my nickname.”
Charley felt weak in the legs, glad for an excuse to squat. Always before, he had kept running when he’d shot someone. Erv Kelley was the first man he had killed and actually looked in the face. It took the strength out of his legs, looking at him, because there it was: death.
“Charley, you’re hit!” Beulah cried, choking off her tears abruptly. “There’s blood on your pants.”
“He just nicked my hip,” Charley said, still looking at the dead man. He had been a good-looking fellow; now, he was dead as a fallen deer.
“You’re lucky that’s all it was,” Bradley said. “Them Tommy guns will cut a man in two.”
“He didn’t know how to shoot it—he should’ve practiced,” Charley said, standing up. “Tommy guns’ll get away from you if you don’t hold ’em firm. Look at the ground he plowed up.”
“Erv just bought that weapon last week,” Willie said. “I doubt he could afford the ammunition to practice. The filling station business ain’t been good lately.”
“It still beats the bounty-hunting business,” Charley said, walking back to the car. He felt a sadness so deep, he didn’t think he would be able to drive.
“Beulah, if you’re calmed down, would you drive?” he asked.
“Mister, I’d be glad to drive,” Willie volunteered.
Everyone looked at him in surprise.
“Drive me where, to the hoosegow?” Charley asked. “I just killed your boss.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Floyd,” Willie said. “I ain’t got no job now. Nobody in Clebit’s gonna hire me because of the turnips.”
“Turnips?” Charley asked.
“He eats turnips, day and night,” Brad said. “That’s why they call him Turnip Breath.”
“I’ve always considered turnips to be harmless,” Charley said. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“They are,” Willie said. “Folks just got funny ideas about ’em, I guess.”
Charley sighed. “What do you think, girls? Wanna take this fool along?”
“I don’t care who we take, Charley, I just wanna leave,” Beulah said.
“What about Erv?” Bessie asked. “Are you just gonna drive off and leave us with this, Charley?”
“What else can I do, other than surrender?” Charley asked. “I’m sorry—I’m mighty sorry. But he jumped up pointing that Tommy gun at me while I was shutting the gate. If he’d been more experienced, he would have cut me down. Once he started shootin’, it was kill or die.”
“What if they think Brad done it?” Bessie asked. “The law’s got it in for us anyway because of you.”
Charley looked at his brother.
“They do watch us pretty close now, Charley,” Brad said.
Charley raked around in his suitcase until he found a tablet and a pencil that he used to play tic-tac-toe with Dempsey. He sat in the front seat of the car, and wrote on the tablet:
I, Charles Arthur Floyd, killed this man in self-defense. I regret my action but had no choice. My brother and his family are innocent of this killing. They were elsewhere at the time.
Charles Arthur Floyd
Charley handed the letter to Bessie.
“Give ’em that, when they come,” he said. “I’m sorry to have brought this trouble.”
“You always bring trouble, Charley,” Bessie said, with some bitterness. “Being sorry don’t change it—it’s still trouble.”
“Bessie, hush,” Bradley said, feeling worse by the minute.
Willie Locust still stood in the wet weeds, with his hands up.
“Put them hands down,” Charley said. “Somebody’ll come along and hang out a washing on ’em if you don’t.”
“Much obliged,” Willie said, lowering his hands. He had been careful not to look at Erv’s body.
Charley noticed a sad look cross Brad’s face when Rose finally dried her eyes and got back in the car. It occurred to him then that Bessie might have some reason of her own to jump on him. But they were leaving, and there was nothing he could do to make it up to her. Bessie had a long memory; maybe it never would be made up.
Willie drove; Rose sat in the front seat with him.
“Where we goin’, Mr. Floyd?” Willie asked.
“Kansas City, and step on it,” Charley said.
When Charley mentioned Kansas City, a light flickered in Beulah’s eyes—the first light Charley had seen there in months.
“Will you take me dancin’, Charley, when we get there?” Beulah asked, hopeful—she could see Charley was upset.
Charley looked out the window. Dancing with Beulah in Kansas City was the last thing on his mind.
“I suppose, if my hip don’t seize up,” he replied.
14
Beulah clung so tight once they got to Kansas City that the only way Charley could even get breathing space was to give her a wad of shopping money. He made Willie Locust drive her. Willie was constantly underfoot, too, but he drove competently and ran so many errands for the girls that they wouldn’t have allowed Charley to fire him, even had he been so inclined. Willie had never seen a city before; he hadn’t even been to Tulsa. For the first few days, he did nothing but gawk. He’d even gawk at a fireplug, which annoyed Beulah.
“Stop gawking at that fireplug, you hick,” she told him.
“Yes, ma’am, ’scuse me,” Willie said. City life scared him, but not as badly as Beulah Baird scared him. When she said jump, he jumped—though often, it seemed, in the wrong direction.
When Beulah counted the wad of money Charley gave her, she began to develop suspicions. Not a word had been said about Lulu Ash, a suspicious fact in itself. Beulah was not one to mask her doubts, either. She had been about to march out the door and get in the car, but she changed her mind and marched up to Charley instead. He was standing by his dresser, picking out a necktie for the day.
“What’d you forget?” he asked, trying to ignore the suspicious look on Beulah’s face.
“I forgot to tell you what happened to the tomcat when he went up the wrong alley,” Beulah said.
“What tomcat, and what alley?” Charley asked, pretending to give the ties a close study.
“What happened was, the tomcat got strangled with a polka-dot necktie,�
� Beulah informed him. “I put up with your wife. But I won’t put up with that old whore, I don’t care how much money you give me.”
“Gosh,” Charley said. “You mean Ma Ash? I doubt she’s even still in this town.”
“Keep doubtin’ it!” Beulah said. “I didn’t get shot in the head, and then squat down there with Bradley and Bessie in a cotton patch for six months, to see you mess around with that old bitch.”
Fifteen minutes later, Charley was sitting in Lulu’s kitchen, drinking homemade whiskey. Since the Erv Kelley killing, he had found liquor harder to resist. There were lots of times when he wanted to cut his mind off. Beulah could help him cut it off for a few minutes, but whiskey cut it off longer.
“You should have stayed here and run hootch with me,” Lulu said, looking him over.
“Why should I, you don’t look rich,” Charley said.
“Sass me, and I’ll slap your puss,” Lulu said. “You’re lucky I even let you in the door. Every cop in seven states is waiting to haul you in.”
“You notice they ain’t hauled me in yet,” Charley said. “Ever been to Canada?”
“Yeah. Not much fun to be had in Canada, all that cold takes the humor out of folks,” Lulu said. “Why?”
“Where would you go, if you was me?” Charley asked. “I gave Beulah a hundred and fifty dollars so I could sneak off and visit with you for a few minutes. Why do you have to be so stiff? All I want’s advice.”
Then Lulu did slap his puss. “It may not be all I want,” she said, reaching for his pants.
“We’re in the kitchen!” Charley told her. “Anybody could walk in!”
But nobody did.
“I wouldn’t go to Canada,” Lulu said, when she got around to giving him advice.
“Why not?” Charley asked. “I’ve heard it’s a big place.”
“That’s right—a big place with smart cops,” Lulu said. “They’d nab you in a wink.”
“Well, forget that, then,” Charley said. “What would you do in my spot?”
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