Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  “What the hell?” Moon's voice rose several notes. He pressed backward, crowding a stack of dishes. Ira took a step, snatching up a catsup bottle by its neck. A patient sidelong stare by Twilley caused him to think better of it. Ira put back the bottle.

  “Mr. Boley,” he said softly, “would you step out from behind that counter, please? Thank you. Just move toward those washroom doors if you will.” He waved the foot-long weapon toward the hunter. “You first, Ira. Get on in there, please. The ladies' room.”

  “Is ... is this a holdup?” It was the salesman.

  “No sir,” Twilley answered. “You and your property are perfectly safe. But I have to ask you to follow Ira there for just a little while.” The salesman slid from his stool and backed toward the door Twilley indicated, glancing at his sample case only when Twilley looked away. Ira hesitated. Then, with a snort of contempt, he turned his back on the gun and fell in slowly behind the salesman. Twilley stepped to the front door, which he swung shut and bolted, drawing a grimy curtain over the glass and turning a plastic Dr. Pepper sign to the side that read CLOSED.

  Boley entered the ladies' room last. With a guiding touch from Twilley, he took his place next to Ira against the far wall. There was no window. Twilley motioned to the salesman and directed him to a stool in front of a cracked and peeling mirror.

  “Sit here?” the man asked, a deep shudder in his voice.

  “If you don't mind, sir.” Twilley turned toward the hunter. “Ira,” he asked, “did you know Mr. Boley down in Tupelo by chance?”

  ”I got nothin' to say to you.”

  “Don't you mean, 'I got nothin' to say to you, nigger’?”

  “You know what you are.”

  The pistol spat once and Ira's right leg whipped backward. It struck with such force that his boot smashed a hole in the plaster wall. A spray of blood traced a crescent on the plaster and on the white tile floor. Boley's eyes went wide and the salesman yelped as Ira crashed to the floor. Twilley stretched a calming hand toward the salesman but kept his eyes on Ira.

  “Do you recall my question, Ira?”

  Ira nodded but seemed unable to speak through his tightened jaw. Twilley pointed the pistol toward his other leg.

  “Don't!” he gasped. “No, I didn't... I never been to Tupelo.”

  “You became acquainted for the first time here in Greeley?”

  “Yeah ... No ... We met near here. On an elk hunt.”

  “And your friendship blossomed, based on a mutual distaste for us niggers?”

  ”Wha. ..?”

  “I'm asking whether you're both white supremacists of any sort.”

  “Well... No ... Yeah ... It ain't. . .” Ira was close to retching from the pain and shock of his wound. “It ain't personal . . . We just. . .” He dropped his head, unable to deny his beliefs in front of his friend and even less able to articulate an expression of his philosophy that an armed black man might find acceptable.

  ”I guess it won't surprise you too much, Ira, to learn that this man is in fact Raymond Boley, Ray-Ray to his friends. Or that Ray-Ray was a Klan member.” Twilley waved his pistol toward the transfixed restaurant owner. “Mr. Boley? Ray-Ray? Would you care to tell him the rest?”

  Huggins-Boley could only twitch his head to one side.

  “Mr. Boley is a modest man. The fact is, he's one good old boy who really knows how to handle us niggers. He personally castrated a fifteen-year-old black child.” The last word was a hiss when Howard spoke it. But for that, his tone and manner remained icily polite. “Among his many other heroics, Mr. Boley also took part in the shotgun murders of an elderly couple who sought to file criminal charges against him. Quite a man, wasn't he, Ira? I bet it's hard to imagine that this quaking coward was that same avenging knight of the South.”

  Twilley turned toward the salesman, who was also trembling. The salesman thought he saw a wave of sympathy, even kindness, cross the black man's face. Then it was gone.

  “Mr. Boley,” he said, approaching the terrified counterman, “did you hear the one about the Klansman who had diarrhea?” His face was now within inches of Boley's. The pistol was somewhere below. Absurdly, the Klansman tried to smile. Twilley smiled with him.

  The gun spat again. Quieter this time. Boley felt his body lifting to his toes. A curious look of relief came into his eyes as his brain argued that because the sound of the shot was different, and since the pain was not great, perhaps he had not been shot. Perhaps it was only a knee that smashed into him. Boley stood for a long moment flattened high on the wall before his legs began to melt beneath him. He felt the wetness on his legs, and his fingers reached to discover its source as he slid down the wall. And then he knew. Boley crumpled over, his mouth sucking air like a landed fish.

  “You have to wait for the punch line, Mr. Boley,” said the black man, stepping back. “You remember. About the Klansman who had diarrhea.”

  Boley made a choking sound.

  “It was because some nigger shot off his balls, Mr. Boley.”

  The gun spat twice more. Before he fainted, Ray-Ray Boley watched both his kneecaps explode through his trousers.

  The salesman too looked as though he would fall. Twilley stepped over Boley and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “Sir, it's the truth you won't be harmed,” he told him. “Do you think you can get hold of yourself for a few minutes?”

  The salesman jerked his head.

  “My name is Ben. Ben Coffey.” The black man's manner was now relaxed and friendly. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

  ”T-Tom. It's Tom Peebles.”

  “Do you know these two, Tom?”

  “No. I'm . .. I'm from Boulder. I just wanted breakfast.”

  “Traveling salesman, huh? What do you sell, Tom?”

  Peebles's lips moved, but he seemed reluctant to speak.

  “No matter, Tom. Just making conversation.” The black man looked at his watch and jerked his head to indicate that the subject was changing. “Tom, I'd like you to make a phone call for me.”

  A lamp on the desk in Sonnenberg's study had switched on. “That will be your call, Duncan,” Sonnenberg's voice told him. “Just pick up the receiver. I don't like phones that ring. They have a certain rudeness to them.”

  Peck considered denying Sonnenberg whatever prank he'd planned by ignoring the call. But that petty satisfaction might deny him knowledge he could use. He reached for the phone and gave his name.

  A man, a frightened man, identified himself with a name Peck did not recognize. Peck could hear another voice speaking softly, instructing the man Peebles who placed the call “Just tell him what happened here, Tom. Tell him everything you saw.”

  Duncan Peck flushed as he listened. He covered one ear against the din made by Michael Biaggi, who was in the study, kicking out some paneling that sounded hollow. “Michael!” he snapped. Biaggi stopped and Peck waved him from the room.

  “The man, Boley. Is he dead?”

  “No sir. Um, I'm to tell you that he's been slowed down considerably. Sir, you understand I have nothing to do with this?”

  “Perfectly, yes,” Peck answered. “Who is the man telling you what to say, Mr. Peebles? Did he give a name?”

  “Ben Coffey, sir. He wants me to be sure you know that. He says you can't plan on Boley to run any more errands for you and that he'll be slowing down one or two steps more just to make sure you get the message.”

  “What message specifically, Mr. Peebles?”

  “He says Dr. . . . Sonnenberg? ... He says Dr. Sonnenberg will explain everything. He says I have to hang up now, sir. I really have to. He has this gun—” The connection was broken.

  Peck, his jaw tight, pulled out his notebook and again began scribbling furiously. With a wave, he summoned Ed Burleson and handed him the result. Burleson's eyebrows rose, but Peck shut off further conversation with a light shove toward the door.

  ”I bet I know what it says, Duncan.” Sonnenberg's voice was pleas
ant. “Get thee our men to Greeley. Seal off this. Cordon off that. FBI men to the airports and bus stations. It all sounds very exciting. I think, however, that Benjamin will anticipate a certain amount of hostile activity.”

  ‘There is a point to this, I suppose, Marcus?”

  ”I should think it would be obvious. You're being offered a lesson in humility, Duncan. I hope you'll profit by it. Once I've painfully demonstrated that you can't hide anyone I can't find, my hope is that you will curtail certain of the tawdry activities of your people in the field. Another will be punished today and occasionally in the future just to let you know I'm paying attention. Benjamin needs the exercise. I'm afraid his situation in Dayton was beginning to pall. In truth, he has you to thank for providing a timely outlet for his energies.”

  “I'll have your head, Marcus,” Duncan Peck hissed through his teeth. ”I will have your head or you will have mine. There will be no other way.”

  “One never knows, does one, Duncan.” Peck heard the clicking of switches. “Oops! Here comes one of your worthies dashing breathlessly from the basement. He seems to have found something exciting.”

  Ben Coffey took a dishtowel and used a carving knife to slice it into several long strips.

  “Tourniquets, Tom,” he said. “Let's go back inside there and you can tie up old Ray-Ray's legs. We don't want him bleeding to death.”

  The salesman blinked. “Why . . . why did you do this then?”

  Ben steered him toward the ladies' room, indicating with a nod that he'd explain while Tom ministered.

  Boley was unconscious. The man called Ira sat gripping his own leg high on the thigh, his eyes staring hatred toward Ben as he entered. Peebles began with Boley.

  “You see, Tom,” Ben said, glancing at Ira to make sure he had his attention as well. “Ray-Ray here got caught for what he did down in Tupelo. The FBI caught him and they had him cold. They decided, though, that Ray-Ray would be more useful as an informant than as a celebrity prisoner in some redneck jail. It ended up that a bunch of his friends got sent to the federal prison in Atlanta for violating the civil rights of the two old folks I mentioned. The specific violation was blowing their faces off with shotguns. Now, there's a few black people, me included, who'd like to have found Ray-Ray after that, but there are a hell of a lot more good ol' boys who also want him dead. They'll have an easier time catching up with him now that I've slowed him down some. Do you follow all this, Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  ”I don't believe a goddamned word of it,” Ira croaked.

  “Yes you do, Ira. Or you will when you read the papers. You just don't want to believe that a straight-thinking American like Ray-Ray here would turn on his straight-thinking, like-minded friends. You especially don't want to believe you got shot for a turd like that, but there it is, Ira.”

  “You go to hell.”

  Coffey shook his head in resignation. He thought of suggesting that Ira take one of those strips and tie up his own squirting wound before it pumped his life away, but what does a nigger know about anything? He turned his attention back to the salesman.

  “Tom, the FBI will be having a long talk with you,” he said, his voice low and confidential. “Would you remember to give them a message for me?”

  The salesman nodded.

  “You see, they turned Ray-Ray here over to the fellow you spoke to on the phone. He's supposed to hide people like Boley. That's his job. He hides them all right, and he keeps them hidden as long as they do as they're told and keep doing whatever they're good at whenever Duncan Peck wants. What Ray-Ray here is good at is shooting niggers, and he also doesn't mind doing that when Peck thinks a need arises, so everything works out fine. Peck has all kinds of experts. He has fellas that rob banks, that do kidnapping, fix elections, do extortions—just about any helpful little specialty Peck could need. You'll tell the FBI to take a look-see, won't you, Tom? Tell them I'm going to make a couple of other stops like this just to drive the point home.”

  Coffey rose to his feet. The revolver hung casually at his side.

  “I'll be going now, Tom. I'm going to close this door, and I have to ask you not to open it for five minutes or so. If I see it move before I leave, I'm going to have to shoot through it. I'm also going to tear out the phone. After I'm gone, you find a filling station, call the police, then come back and pour yourself a cup of coffee until they come. Boley won't mind.”

  Tom Peebles nodded. He was beginning to sweat. There was something new in his eyes. Confusion, Coffey decided. Wondering why the Greeley police weren't here already after he'd told that man on the phone what was going on. But he knew Peck wouldn't have called the police. He knew he had time.

  Coffey patted Tom Peebles on the shoulder and stepped through the door of the blood-splashed ladies' room, closing it behind him. He walked to his briefcase and laid the gun inside. He paused, thoughtful. Tom Peebles's expression still lingered in his mind. More than confusion, he thought. That was a fella trying to make up his mind about something. Coffey shook his head, dismissing the notion. Time to just get away from here. He closed his fingers over the briefcase lid.

  “Ben?” came the frightened voice from a three-inch crack in the ladies' room door. “Please don't move, Ben.”

  Tom Peebles pushed through the doorway, a plated automatic pistol held tightly in both hands at shoulder level. Its line of sight stuttered nervously across Ben Coffey's chest. Coffey stared at the small chromed weapon for several seconds, making a disgusted face and shaking his head at his own carelessness.

  “Oh, Tom,” he said sadly, “now why would you be carrying a gun?”

  “It's ... I have a license.”

  ”I should have guessed that when I saw you keeping your sample case close by. Jewelry salesman?”

  Peebles hesitated. ”I . . . call on doctors. Ethical drugs. There are addicts who'd . . .”

  “That's fine, Tom. Now, instead of waving that gun around like you meant it, why don't you take your sample case and go pour a few pills into Ray and Ira back there.”

  “Ben, I can't. I can't let you shoot people and just walk out.”

  “You'd shoot me, Tom?”

  “Please. I don't want to.”

  “You got your gun on him?” Ira's voice shouted from inside. “Shoot him, goddamnit.” Ben could hear him struggling to stand on his one good leg. He would have to work fast.

  “Look what's happening to your little gun, Tom. It's getting hot in your hands, isn't it? Hot and wet.”

  “No. No, it's—”

  “I'm sorry, Tom. I'm terribly sorry you had to be put in this position. You don't want to be here. Lord knows you don't want to be holding that gun. And now that you are, you can't even shoot it. It's too hot. So hot it's starting to get soft.”

  My God, Peebles thought. My God, it's true. He could feel it. The gun was hot and soft and his hands were pressing right into the metal. He tried relaxing his grip, but that only made the front sight droop downward. It stiffened when he squeezed again, but now the butt was oozing out between his fingers. It couldn't be true but it was. The gun, he knew, would never fire. It would just fall apart if he tried to fire it. Even if the slide and firing pin still worked, the trigger would just bend back like putty if he put any pressure on it. He could feel it almost that way now. Hanging there. All limp and flaccid.

  “Drop the gun on the floor, Tom. It won't go off. You'll see. It will bounce on the floor like a dead rubber ball.”

  “No . . ” The salesman stared helplessly at the mass in his hands.

  “Just try it, Tom. You may as well. You're beginning to look pretty silly trying to scare someone with a gun that's dripping through your fingers.”

  Peebles parted his hands. The gun stuck fast to one of them. A look of revulsion contorted his face and he brushed frantically at the gun, as if it were a repulsive living thing. It fell away. Peebles watched it as it fell away and bounced crazily between his legs. Half in shock, he stared at the black man.


  “Thank you, Tom,” Ben Coffey said easily. “Now I think you were going to wait inside that ladies' room, weren't you? Why don't you tack on an extra five minutes for good measure.”

  Peebles nodded. He backed through the door, letting it close behind him.

  And thank you, Dr. Sonnenberg. Coffey smiled to himself. You do teach some dandy things. And now, Benjamin, it's time to sneak your way down to old K.C. and visit some with another Pecker—hey, that's not bad—who puts bombs in cars for Mr. Peck when he's not off campin' and cat fishin' all by his lonesome along the big muddy, which is where me and him are going to ...

  His hand was on the bolt latch when the warning pulsed from the back of his brain. It came even before the click and clack of a slide opening and slamming home a cartridge. It came as the front door creaked open and its sound seemed to echo within him, like two doors opening at the same time. The ladies' room. Tom Peebles's gun. It bounced backward when he dropped it. It bounced backward intø the ladies' room.

  Ben Coffey never heard the shot. But he knew. He knew in those milliseconds when the world turned white in a flash so bright it made his head hurt. Then a blackness came in waves, as if a stone had been tossed in the middle of a pool of light, exploding its center and washing it away with a cooling, spreading darkness. It was much better dark. So peaceful. And it didn't hurt his eyes any longer. Ben Coffey knew he was dead. Sorry, Doc. I know what you'll say. Such a waste. And how I should have been patient. And about how I talk too much. But who'd have thought? Who'd have thought a nice fella like ol' Tom would . . .

  Ira Teal hopped clumsily across the lunchroom floor, making his way from stool to stool, paying no attention to the stream of arterial blood that marked his route. The gore slickened pistol slipped from his grasp and he fell on it, crawling now to the body of Ben Coffey slumped against the door.

  “Goddamned nigger,” he roared. Thrusting his arm out along the floor, he fired again, uselessly. “Goddamned smart-ass nigger!” Ira emptied the pistol into what remained of Benjamin Coffey and Howard Twilley.

  Ira would bleed to death in the next five minutes.