Recurrence

by Dave Norem

  While coming down the other side of the mountains, they saw several signs advertising a rodeo near Worland. It looked interesting, and they looked forward to some real wild-west action. The rodeo contestants turned out to be three drunken old Indians. Their wives were along to pick them up after they were bucked off the tired-looking horses they’d towed in with three, two-horse trailers.

  After leaving the Worland area, John and Julie spent a night in Thermopolis, but did not try the hot springs advertised. After they were set up in the next campground, they noticed the Cortsons’ Camper back-to-back to them, in the lot behind them. They made a late, but brief, visit. The backs of the campers were only twenty-feet apart, and both had full-width windows.

  Mike Cortson was in his early-forties, tall and gangly with a hooked nose. He was recuperating from a back injury while on the trip. They never saw him without a hat and suspected that he was bald. Theena Rae was several years younger and had course features. She was short and petite and had a mane of wild dark-red hair.

  Later, after they had turned their lights out, they watched Theena Rae strip completely naked with her lights on and the curtains wide open. She entered and left the shower and toweled herself dry in the open. Afterwards, still naked, she stood spraddle-legged in front of a full-length mirror brushing her wild hair. The mirror was on a door that stood open at an angle, and they could see her from both front and back. She was firm and shapely, and they both noticed that her upper and lower hair colors matched.

  Mike Cortson was sitting sideways in the back corner, watching a small black and white television. He was less than five feet from her, and never once glanced her way.

  “I’d like to be built like that, especially at her age,” Julie commented.

  “You’ve got her beat, Baby.” John replied, still staring at the window across from them.

  Julie smacked his ear playfully, and they both laughed. “Doesn’t she know that we can see her?” She asked.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods? She knows; she’s counting on it,” John answered.

  Later they created their own show, but their lights were out, and the curtains were drawn.

  They meandered into western Wyoming over another day and night, and into the morning, before running into trouble. Even then, they would never have imagined it to be Indian trouble. At a secondary two-lane highway in the foothills, a lone flagman stopped them with no cause in sight. He had been sitting on his tailgate, but when they were within fifty yards, he stood up with his sign. Other than the flagman’s pickup truck, parked half-off the road on the right side, there were no other vehicles in sight.

  John stopped, exited the Winnebago, and approached the man. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Flash flood washout up ahead, it’ll be thirty minutes before they get a lane patched up enough to cross.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Not too often.”

  The man returned to his tailgate and a thermos.

  Julie cautiously stepped down and joined John at the front of the motor home. “Why are we stopped?”

  “The road ahead is washed out and it’ll be half-an-hour before we can go on.”

  “Can we go back?”

  John laughed and said, “It’s a two-hour drive back to the last crossroad. The weather is perfect, let’s just wait outside.”

  They stood in front of the camper for a few more minutes, looking around at the scenery and talking very little. The increasing sound of a motor behind them caught their attention. They both looked back around the corner of their motor home and saw an old Dodge flatbed truck approaching. It stopped behind them, and two Indian men of about John’s size and age stepped out. Both of the men had shoulder length hair and flat-crowned western hats.

  They walked up past the side of the Winnebago, to where John and Julie were watching them approach. One had a crescent-shaped scar on his left temple. He spit tobacco juice to the side and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. When he opened his mouth, John noticed at least two upper-front teeth missing on one side. The other man had no noticeable scars, but his nose was crooked. They walked up on John’s right side, as Julie was standing on his left.

  “Good morning,” John greeted them.

  “Morning, why we stopped?” the man with the crooked nose asked.”

  John glanced ahead to see if the flagman was going to answer, but the man remained on his tailgate with his sign propped up between his knees, still looking their way.

  When John saw that the flagman was not going to reply, he answered himself. “He told me that the road is washed out and it will be another twenty minutes or so before we can get through.”

  The man with the scar grunted and the other one glanced over John’s shoulder toward Julie. “Nice looking motor home.”

  “Thanks, we love it.” She answered.

  John gave her a quick glance and then looked back toward the two men. He had already detected a slight tension about them.

  “What motor does it got?” the crooked nosed one asked. John was already thinking of them as ‘Crooked Nose’ and ‘Scar.’ He made a mental note that Crooked Nose was going to do the talking for both of them.

  “Dodge Three-forty,” He replied.

  “Nice, real nice, good motor: how many does it sleep?

  “Six, but you have to take the table down to do it,” John said, “and that bed is small.”

  “You don’t mind if we have a look inside, do you?”

  “Yes, I do mind,” John said. “Julie, get these men a cold drink while we’re standing out here.”

  Julie slipped around behind John, passing behind the two men as well. She went into the camper and closed the screen door behind her. The two men had looked at each other while she was passing.

  “Man, we just wanted to see what one of these is like inside. It’s probably better than our houses,” Crooked Nose said.

  John stared directly at him. “It is my house, and I don’t know you well enough to let you into my personal life.”

  “Yeah, we just going see what it’s like inside.” The other man finally spoke. He turned and stepped toward the camper door.

  “Stop!” John commanded. “You’re not going in there.”

  The man continued toward the door, so John sidestepped behind Crooked Nose, and grabbed Scar’s right arm, pulling him off balance. Crooked Nose spun around to his left and tried to grab John’s left wrist but missed. John pulled back and yanked Scar over in front of him; keeping his own back to the motor home.

  Crooked Nose stepped back and regained his balance. Scar pulled back toward his partner, and John released his arm; hoping they were done. He glanced over the man’s shoulder toward the flagman, hoping for assistance. For a moment, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The flagman was walking away, toward the cab of his truck.

  Crooked Nose lunged back toward him, and John shot a straight left to his nose. Blood flew, and the man staggered back, losing his hat. Scar charged in from the right and grabbed John around the waist, trying to wrestle him to the ground. John slid along the camper and stayed upright, pushing down on the man’s shoulder, and knocked his hat off too. He was trying to move the fight away from the camper door, and away from Julie.

  He wanted to snag the man’s legs behind the bumper, breaking one or both if possible. Too late for that, he grabbed the back of the man’s head and slammed his face down against it, smashing his nose. A multitude of thoughts flashed through his mind in moments. He silently berated himself for letting them catch him out in the open without a weapon. There was no club, knife, brass knuckles, or even a rock, at hand. Would Julie lock the door, blow the horn; or start the motor and back away?

  He no sooner had Scar tangled up in the bumper, when Crooked Nose rushed back in. John hit him in the nose again with the same punch, but Scar had grabbed his belt from beh
ind and it was a glancing blow. Crooked nose kept coming this time.

  John kneed Scar in the body, trying for the groin, and felt a blow to the left side of his face from Crooked Nose. He punched at him again, and when he ducked, John grabbed his long greasy hair with both hands. The man jerked back, and John head-butted him in the face.

  There was a loud “BONG” on his right, and Scar, already on his knees, dropped like a sack of grain. John looked over him and saw Julie with a big cast-iron skillet, ready to hit him again.

  He hollered “No!” just as Crooked Nose dropped to his butt on the ground. He was holding his bloody face and shaking his head slowly, clearly dazed and out of the fight.

  John looked ahead and saw that the flagman had moved his pickup fifty feet farther away, and was still sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. He was furious that another white man had deserted him, leaving him to fight the two Indians alone. He glanced back to see that the man Julie had hit was face down, and little puffs of dust were blowing up alongside his face as he breathed. Julie was now standing over the other one with her skillet.

  “Don’t hit either one of them any more, you’ll kill them with that thing,” he said.

  “I didn’t, and I won’t as long as they stay where they are.”

  “Good, I’ll be right back.” He went inside the camper and retrieved a .22 Magnum rifle from the closet. He had already stuffed shells into the feed tube and was jacking one into the chamber as he stepped out.

  He said, “I’m going to talk to that flagman.”

  As he started toward the pickup, the flagman jumped out and grabbed his sign from the back. He made a sweeping motion with the sign and hollered, “Go on around, the road’s clear now.”

  John hesitated, thinking he really wanted to butt-stroke the son of a bitch. He wanted even more though, to be on his way. He recalled wanting to shoot the woman who had stabbed him in Chicago too, and was forever glad that he hadn’t. He glared at the flagman and turned back.

  The Indian that Julie had flattened with the skillet was still on the ground, but now on his hands and knees. His head was hanging down and he was swaying sideways while blood dripped from his scalp and from one ear canal. Crooked Nose, who was now flat nose, looked as if he wanted to get up, but was afraid of Julie’s skillet. Both of their hats were still on the ground.

  “Go ahead and load up Julie, and you!” John said to the one sitting up, “Drag your asshole buddy over to that truck, turn it around, and go the other way.”

  He kicked the man hard in the side and then stomped both of their dirty hats flat, then kicked them away in a rage. “If I see either of you again I’ll kill you. You won’t have to worry about the damned skillet.”

  Crooked Nose was crouched over, scrambling away toward the truck, and John pointed the rifle at his face. “Take him!” he roared.

  They watched the two men stagger to the truck, like a four-legged drunken beast, and then turn it around. When they were nothing but a cloud of dust, John started the Winnebago and drove on past the flagman’s pickup. The flagman was back in the driver’s seat facing straight ahead again, his hands at the ten and two o’clock, positions. They saw him avert his eyes from the side mirror as they passed.

  They drove five miles before actually getting to the repair site. John had cooled down enough that he no longer wanted to stop and report the flagman to his boss. “They probably already know he’s a coward anyway,” he mumbled to himself. John did not want to deal with the possibility of a police report, and all that one might entail. He never did catch up with the repair crew. They had long ago loaded up and left.

  After they left the area, they laughed off-and-on for a long time about her nearly killing an Indian with a cast-iron skillet.

  “Just like a pioneer woman,” she said. “And you’ve got a black eye—just like a bare-knuckle prize fighter.”

  “They have matching flat noses now too, and you’re the prize I was fighting for.”

  They both laughed and later he thanked her.

  She told him, “I was already swinging it when I realized he was on his knees and the other one was falling too. You already had them under control, but I still wanted to kill them for attacking you.”

  “I understand; I wanted to kill them too, just for what I thought they wanted to do to you.” He didn’t tell her that he might well have killed them both if she hadn’t been there. He wanted to stomp them into the dirt until his boots were bloody.

  John and Julie continued on to Yellowstone, arriving at the East Entrance just after 6:00 O’clock. A park ranger turned them away, telling them the park was full for the day.

  She said, “You need to be here at the crack of dawn.”

  It was thirty miles back to a campground, and the state did not allow camping along the highway. They left at 4:30 the next morning, and John nearly hit a herd of dark-colored horses ten miles west of the campground. Light reflecting from a metal bell hanging from the lead-mare’s neck was the only thing that saved them. When they told the park ranger at the gate about it, he said; “Yep, it’s all free range out there, and horses don’t stare into your headlights like deer or cattle.”

  They spent three days touring Yellowstone without incident and left through the North Pass, into Montana. On the way down the mountain, a group of Hells Angels passed them, two or three bikes at a time. At the base of the pass, they rolled through a small authentic-looking western town. The bikers were parking in front of a saloon, while all up and down the street horses were in turmoil at the hitch rails.

  “It would be fun to watch when the bikers tangle with the cowboys, but we’re not sticking around for it,” John said. He had served with a few cowboys and found them to be fearless and tough as nails.

  They continued eastward across North Dakota and encountered the strongest winds they had ever seen. When they traveled south for a few miles, the Winnebago tilted up onto the wheels on just one side more than once.

  CHAPTER 15

  John was ready to go back to work, but first he had to buy another house and establish a visible means of support. Julie deserved more stability and a better chance for a rewarding career. They agreed on Lafayette, where he already owned the duplex. It wasn’t large enough for their tastes but the city itself was a nice size, without being too large. It was also just close enough to her family.

  John managed to land a regional, industrial equipment sales position, while Julie worked on restoring her state teaching license. John’s new job allowed him to travel throughout a hundred-mile radius without supervision. Not much was expected of him, as the man he had replaced hadn’t done much.

  Calling in once a week, and then two days of travel, was enough to keep up with customer orders. Another day or two each week was enough to garner sufficient new business for him to be ahead of his predecessor. He was able to sleep at home for three or four nights a week and still search for something more lucrative.

  During their first six months in Lafayette, they rented an older house. Considering that to be a sufficient amount of time, they found a more modern house and used money from selling the Winnebago, along with trumped up job savings, as a way to pay cash for it. They could always buy another motor home, or cars, without anyone questioning their ability to pay cash.

  Julie was back to teaching, while still writing the children’s books, and was contented. John allowed Allen Wells to find a renter for the other half of the duplex, appointing him as agent and building manager. He also allowed Allen to pocket half of the rent from it, undeclared.

  John had been in contact with Cramer, who had a line on something for them in St. Louis. It sounded strong and John was eager for the opportunity.

  The job was a small factory that still had a cash payroll. They manufactured spindles and bearing-races for trailer axles, and employed a majority of foreign-born workers of Polish, Cuban, and Dominican desc
ent. Most of them couldn’t speak English, qualify for Social Security, or have a bank account.

  They worked minimum wage at long hours with employer deductions for interest on cash advances. They paid back for worker’s requirements such as gloves, hand tools and safety glasses, making it a sweet deal for the private owner. He also rented them shacks for additional income.

  Cramer had found a disgruntled former employee who had figured out a way to snatch the payroll before it got to the workers. The employer thought bringing the money in at random times one or two nights before payday was clever enough. Cramer and his new friend, Carl Sovorski, agreed that it was neither random enough, nor clever enough. A marked armored car delivered the money, always at night. Cramer introduced John and Carl, who was calling himself Weed until after the job was over. This was good enough for John, who also used an alias for every job.

  Weed had worked out a way to sneak in and out of the factory undetected, and had a hiding place inside big enough for several men. Cramer had already bankrolled him enough money to stock the hiding place for several days.

  St. Louis, like most cities of major size, had more than one underground level that interconnected key buildings and their peripheral counterparts. While working at the factory on the midnight shift, Weed had accidentally discovered an access to the underground that appeared unused and abandoned for many years. Recognizing the value of this, he’d kept it covered and secret until he found someone he felt he could trust, Cramer.

  The plan was to enter the city’s underground through a lower-level social club sub-basement. There were several in the area that proved to have workable access.

  From there they would have to travel a quarter-mile through the sewer system to a long unused drainage tunnel that was part of a now-defunct hot-water heating system. The drainage tunnel led up into a large boiler room that was isolated and sealed from the factory’s main basement. A smaller access panel, out of sight behind the gargantuan natural gas heating system, was the passageway into the factory. Weed had found it by noticing that old plumbing disappeared into a blank wall. Now the crew was stocking the boiler room with food, water, buckets, lights, batteries, walkie-talkies and sleeping mats.