Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  11

  Dessie had a big grin on her face as she walked out the door, and I sat dumbfounded on the toilet seat in the Women’s Restroom. My brother slugged his boss. And he blames Harper for getting fired. What a chump.

  A female trucker walked in the restroom, and I felt my face flush. I stammered an apology, jumped up, tiptoed around the woman’s ample girth, and gently removed myself from the Lady’s Room.

  In the darkest corner of the Truckers Only Section, I slipped into an unoccupied booth and lay across the cool Naugahyde upholstery. Resting my head on the seat, I could see under the table. I reached over and grabbed the newspaper off the opposite bench. It was the Las Vegas Sun. I separated the sports page and let the other sections fall to the floor. On page three, I found the National League box scores and got lost in the numbers. As my mind drifted, the newspaper slipped from my hand, and landed on the floor, back-page facing up. On the lower right-hand side was an advertisement for the Las Vegas Rodeo.

  Maybe Harper’s ex husband is at the Las Vegas rodeo. She could be with him. “Probably not.”

  “Probably not what?” an unfamiliar voice called back.

  I picked up the newspaper and moved kitty-cornered across the isle. I sat down opposite an average looking guy, with a five-o’clock shadow, wearing a forest-green flannel shirt and matching John Deere cap.

  “Just thinking out loud,” I said. “My chick split on me. I was thinking she might of gone to Vegas, but it’s a long shot.”

  He shoved a honkin’ piece of meatloaf in his mouth and chewed while he talked. “That sounds exactly like a woman. My ex old lady ran off to Reno. Took every penny I had out of the bank, and ran off with a Goddamn used car salesman. Blew my entire life savings at the crap tables.” He dumped a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth and said, “You can’t trust women. I know that much. They’ll break your heart, take all your money, and leave you holding your dick.”

  “She’s not like that.”

  “They’re all like that, every single Goddamn one of them.”

  “I trust her. She wouldn’t rip me off.”

  He shook his head like he was disappointed in me. “You didn’t give her any money—did you?”

  My chin fell, and my eyes focused on the driver’s ravaged meatloaf. “She wouldn’t do it. I don’t believe it.”

  “You better believe it. And you’d better get your butt to Vegas before she spends all your cash.”

  I stood up and said, “You know something Mister; you’re a boatload of fun. I’ll bet you’re the life of every party.” I grabbed my newspaper. “I’m going to go make a couple of phone calls. Thanks for the advice; I’ll take it for what it’s worth.”

  I got a couple bucks worth of change from the cashier and sat down at a payphone. I called the operator, and she connected me to the FBI in San Bernardino. The switchboard connected me to Agent Andrews.

  “Special Agent Andrews speaking.”

  I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. “Agent Andrews—is that you? I can barely hear you. This is Duff Allison.”

  “Speak up Duff. What’s this about?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to help you get Lawson, but only if you can get Morgan out of jail. Can you get my brother out of jail?”

  “If you provide information that is instrumental in the arrest and prosecution of Lawson, I’ll help you in everyway possible.”

  I jiggled the coin-return lever in a staccato burst. “Here’s what I’ve got. It’s big, so write it down. I’m going to meet Lawson at the Wonderland Ballroom tonight at 9:00.”

  “Did you say Lawson?”

  I held the mouthpiece by the phonebook, fanned the pages, and talked sideways into the receiver. “Yeah—Lawson. I’m going to meet him at the Wonderland Ballroom tonight at 9:00. It’s two miles south of Highway 40 on County Road 1712. You can’t miss it. The money from the armored car robbery is supposed to be there.” I tapped the phone on the counter. “Did you get that? The money exchange is supposed to happen tonight. Lawson is going to be there.”

  “Is Lawson going to have the stolen money on him?”

  “What was that?”

  “Lawson—is Lawson going to have the money?”

  “Yeah Lawson’s going to be there, and the money’s supposed to be there too. We’ve got a really bad connection Agent.” I hung up.

  I dropped another dime and waited for the operator. She was a nice lady who put me through to the San Bernardino Sheriffs Department. I asked for Detective Sanchez. Zico picked up the phone.

  “Robbery—Zico.”

  I held one nostril closed and tuned my voice up a couple octaves. “Are you one of the detectives assigned to the armored car robbery?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Aldous Huxley.

  “What kind of queer name is that?”

  “It’s the name my mother and father gave me sir. If you wish to disparage me further, I’ll take my valuable information to the FBI.

  “Take it easy partner. What you got for me?”

  “I have it on good authority that the money absconded during the now infamous armored car robbery will exchange hands tonight. The exchange will take place at the Wonderland Ballroom at 9:00. If you wish to close your case, I’d suggest you be there. And you’d be wise to bring along a few of your associates.”

  “What’s your connection to all this?” Zico Asked.

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that the largest armored car robbery in the history of San Bernardino County is an open case. More to the point, it’s your open case. If you want to close your case, be at the Wonderland tonight. Things might get a bit dicey, so I’d suggest you bring some of your friends.”

  “What’s your name again,” he asked. “Wait a second—let me find a notepad.”

  “The only thing you need to remember is this: Wonderland Ballroom in Barstow, and tonight at 9:00. Write it on the back of your hand if you can’t remember.”

  Zico asked me to spell my name, and I hung up. I flipped through the yellow pages and found the number to the McCord Mine. I told the receptionist I was an old friend of Lance McCord, and she put me through.

  “McCord here.”

  I tried to sound like a lower east side tough guy in one of those old Jimmy Gagney movies. “You the same Lance McCord who got popped in Oklahoma City smoking reefer with a couple of underage girls?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m the man with the photographs.”

  “What photographs?”

  “I got a dozen 8”X10” pictures of you and a couple of high school girls, buck-naked. If their parents see these, the unholy wrath of the PTA is going to drop on your head. You aren’t going to be able to lie your way out of this one sweetheart. These eight-by-ten glossies will get you ten years.”

  “There aren’t any pictures.”

  “Suit yourself junior. You can play it that way. I’ll sell ‘em to the scandal rags. Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.”

  I didn’t say another word. And he didn’t hang up. I stared at the wall clock and watched fifteen seconds tick off. I said, “I want $5,000 dollars for the pictures and negatives. If you want to stay out of jail, meet me tonight at the Wonderland Ballroom at exactly nine o’clock.” I hung up.

  I went out front to the Family Section and parked my butt in the only empty stool at the lunch counter. I ordered a chocolate shake, some chili fries, and waited for things to slow down. I wanted to ask Dessie some more questions, but she was pretty swamped, and she really didn’t have time to talk. I did manage to ask her what Lance McCord looked like. She told me—‘He’s a pudgy little thing, and he always dresses like he’s about to go on stage at the Grand Ole Opry.

  By the time I finished my fries, it was about 7:00, so I decided to go lie down in my truck and catch a nap before my meeting at the Wonderland. I walked south through the parking lot toward my pickup, with the late evening sun on my left shoulder. I turned lef
t at the pumphouse, and kept my head down, shielding my eyes from the suns glare. I walked up to the driver’s side door and reached for the handle.

  In the time it took to lift my arm, a man in grey-work pants and black farmer boots stepped from behind the pumphouse and unleashed a whirling roundhouse aimed at my hand. I could feel the air rush by as a black leather slapjack missed my fingers by less than an inch. I jumped back, landed on my toes, and brought my fists up ready to defend myself.

  “You Goddamn hippie son of bitch,” he said, puke-red spit dribbling from the side of his mouth.

  The crazed desert rat cocked the slapjack and took another swipe. I weaved to my left, and the weapon glanced off my right bicep. I shifted my weight forward and brought an overhand left straight into his jaw. It was like hitting brick. The crusty old fuck didn’t even flinch. That punch should have brought him to his knees. He looked like he liked it. His sadistic grin revealed rotten tobacco stained teeth. That’s when I realized he was the psycho Highway Patrolman who’d arrested me.

  My gut got that sinking feeling, and I backed away from the old dude. He was hard, a lot harder than me. He was older, bigger, stronger, meaner, and he had a weapon. My only hope was to defend myself, get in as many shots as possible, and hope somebody broke it up before this crazy old dude killed me.

  He took a step toward me and stopped. With a quick flip of the wrist, he whipped his slapjack into a whirl. He raised it up over his head and brought it down full force, aiming for my neck.

  I jumped back and said, “Jesus—you crazy old coot.”

  Spit sprayed from his mouth as he spoke, “I was forced to retire because of you. You Goddamn hippie son of a bitch.” He spit a wad of chaw and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his cheap cotton t-shirt. “I was dragged before the disciplinary board like a common criminal. They threatened to fire me if I didn’t retire. I’ve got a score to settle with you.”

  He had rye whisky eyes. When I looked deep enough into them, I saw a bitter old man who was afraid of not being able to hide behind a badge. He reminded me of the lushes who lived in the waterfront bars around L.A. Harbor. I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I almost felt sorry for him.

  He took another windmill shot with the slapjack, and I didn’t step back. I turned perpendicular to the old man, stepped forward, and let the arc of the old man’s swing sail past my back. I had the proper distance, so I concentrated all my body’s power on the point of impact, and thrust my right foot straight through his knee. It sounded like a broken baseball bat, wood splintering after the perfect pitch. That one put the old man down.

  The slapjack had flown from his hand, so I walked over and picked it up, while the broken old man floundered in the dirt, clutching his leg. I was just about to beat him into eternity, when he rolled over and looked at me with tears pouring down his cheeks.

  “You Goddamn hippie son of a bitch.”

  I dropped the slapjack and said, “Your time has come and gone old man. You’re a relic. Go back to Oklahoma and make peace with your God. If I see you in California again—I’ll kick your ass—you Goddamn Okie son of a bitch.”

  I hopped in my ’41 Studebaker and pointed it toward the back exit. I pulled away, looked in the rearview mirror, and watched the psycho ex cop slither under a semi trailer and disappear out my life for good.