Ragged Man

by Ken Douglas

  Straining, Judy lifted her son over the tailgate. Then she climbed over herself, grabbing onto the roll bar to pull herself in.

  Rick started the car, pushed in the clutch, shoved it into first and drove off the beach, going through the gears, driving fast.

  The car bottomed out as it flew over the curb and hit the street. “Needs shocks,” Rick said, spinning the wheel to the left and going into a slide. He corrected by turning into it and adding power. Then they sped down Across The Way Road, turned right on Kennedy, and left the beach behind.

  It was water clear to Gundry that the man was dead. Maybe he had a wallet. Maybe he had money or a watch. Maybe his shoes would fit. Maybe. Only one way to find out. Scratching his head, chasing the lice, Gundry rose, unzipped his fly and urinated. Then he started toward the corpse.

  He had been a dentist before he’d started to burn his brain cells. An easy and safe career. A tooth doctor didn’t have to tell a mother her child had died on the table. An easy job for an easy man. A man who loved children and life. However, unfortunately, somewhere along the line he started to drink and, as it happens so often, he found that later on down the line he couldn’t stop.

  Now he was little more than human refuse. A bum always on the lookout for a drink. An ape-like man, who walked with his face to the ground in a kind of simian shuffle. And like an ape, he was constantly scratching at the lice and fleas that fed off him.

  Pushing his long, stringy hair out of his eyes, he looked down at the man. “Dead,” he muttered. “Dead for sure.” With large, swollen hands, he flipped the corpse face down into the sand. Then he went through the pockets.

  He found a wallet, opened it, saw money, then stuffed the wallet into his rear pocket. The shoes were too small, but he saw a watch. He started to pull it off when the dead man’s hand grabbed Gundry’s arm in a dead man’s grip.

  Malcolm Gundry screamed, tried to jerk away, but the grip held. He pulled harder, but still the dead man held on. He kicked the corpse, but still it held on. Again he kicked, but to no avail. His weak heart started pumping more blood than it was used to. His head hurt and his arm, held in that devil grip, felt like it was being crushed. He was going to pass out. He was going to die. Then, all of a sudden, he was blinded by light as he felt a white hot stab of pain in the back of his neck. He jerked back, free. He screamed, grabbing the back of his neck, feeling the wetness of his own blood, but this time it was a scream of triumph. He ripped off the dead man’s watch, picked up the dead man’s knife, then shuffled off the beach in search of a drink as the wind picked up, blowing sand.

  “ Let me get this straight,” Sheriff Sturgees said, “he attacked Judy and you ran him down?”

  “ Yes,” Rick Gordon said.

  “ Where’s the knife?”

  “ It was here.”

  “ Where did it go?”

  “ Someone took it.” Rick raised his collar against the wind. He was a head taller than the portly sheriff, but he didn’t let that distract him. Many people, to their everlasting regret, misjudged the sheriff, finding it hard to accept such a keen mind in his short, overweight body.

  “ Who?”

  “ How should I know?” Rick met his stare head on.

  “ Don’t get upset, I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “ It was probably taken by the same man that turned the body.”

  “ Say again.”

  “ The body was on its back.”

  “ That’s right,” Judy said.

  “ He was laying on his back,” J.P. chimed in, “and he had a knife. A Jim Bowie knife.”

  “ How do you know it was a Bowie Knife?”

  “ Captain Wolfe has one. I know what they look like.”

  “ Wolfe Stewart,” the sheriff asked, “the captain of the all day fishing boat that runs between here and Palma?

  “ Yeah, the captain of the Seawolf,” Judy said.

  “ And Captain Wolfe has a Jim Bowie knife like the one I saw,” J.P. said. “He wears it in a knife holster tied to his leg.”

  “ It’s called a scabbard,” Judy said.

  “ All right,” the sheriff turned to Rick, “the man had a knife.”

  “ And he meant Judy harm,” Rick said.

  “ How do you know?”

  “ He would have cut me, Sheriff. I know it. He would have cut me and killed me. I was helpless. I couldn’t move.”

  “ He was gonna kill my mom.”

  “ J.P., get away from there!”

  “ I’m not gonna touch him, Mom.”

  “ Now J.P.!”

  J.P. moved away from the dead man.

  The sheriff bent over the corpse. “No wallet and he had a watch.”

  “ How can you tell?” Judy asked.

  “ Look for yourself.” He pointed to a white ring set off by a deep outdoor tan around the dead man’s left wrist.

  “ Wow, that’s police work, isn’t it?” J.P. said.

  “ Sheriff, can we go now?” Judy asked. “I’d rather J.P. didn’t have to see this.”

  “ He was a witness, but I guess we can do without him here. I’ll talk to you after I’m done. Why don’t you take your boy and wait up by the cars.”

  “ Thanks,” Judy said, overcoming J.P.’s objections.

  “ Okay,” the sheriff said, after they were out of earshot, “now let’s talk about the Jim Bowie knife that isn’t here.”

  Two blocks away Mr. Jaspinder Singh was ringing up a pack of Marlboros when the customer asked him a question.

  “ Do you know Rick Gordon?” The man asked like a policeman.

  “ I am truly not knowing him.”

  “ About six feet, green eyes, maybe hazel. Brown, wavy hair, probably cut a little too long. Got a scar behind his left ear, here.” Storm touched the spot with a finger. “Wife named Ann, a looker, just a little shorter than him, shoulder length hair, Barbie Doll looks, the original blue-eyed blond, you’d seen her, you’d remember. That’s what everyone says. You know anybody like that?”

  “ Not that I can recall.”

  “ I heard they come in here.”

  “ Many people are certainly coming in here. I cannot be knowing each and every one. Why are you asking?”

  “ My name’s Storm, Sam Storm. I’m a private investigator.”

  “ That is a very private eye kind of name you are having, Mr. Storm.”

  “ Yeah, well I’ve heard that before.”

  “ What has this person been doing to cause your looking?”

  “ He makes bootleg CDs.”

  “ And for this you are coming here? My eleven-year-old son makes them on my computer, is he in trouble too?”

  “ I work for the RIAA, the Recording Industry Association of America. They represent the music business and they’re mighty unhappy with Mr. Gordon. They’d like him to find a new line of work. As for your boy, if he’s just making them for himself, we don’t care.”

  “ Why would anybody be buying something anybody can be making?”

  “ The bootleggers are making collectable CDs now, with original packaging that’s hard to duplicate. The FBI busted someone in New Orleans last year, five agents, ten local cops and me. Quite a collar, but he wasn’t one of the big guys that started up the biz.”

  “ Five FBI agents, how impressive. I guess the FBI hasn’t heard about what happened on September 11, 2001 or the war on terror. And ten local cops, that’s impressive too. I guess they don’t have murder, robbery or rape in New Orleans.” Jaspinder Singh snorted. “And now you’re thinking we have a dastardly criminal here in Tampico, pumping out these CDs.” Singh shook his head, what a sad excuse for a man this Sam Storm was.

  “ No, I was following up a lead, that’s all. My brother-in-law thought he saw him up here last month. I thought I’d check it out.” That putz Herbie, Storm thought. This was the third time in as many years that he thought he’d sighted Gordon. Maybe he never should have shown him the pictures.

  “ I am certainly sorry that I can
not be helping you. I do not know the man you are looking for,” he lied. Jaspinder Singh had heard enough-as far as he was concerned Rick Gordon had done nothing wrong. He would continue on the prudent course that he had set out for himself very early in life and mind his own business.

  Sam Storm paid for his cigarettes with a twenty, pocketed his change and walked out the door, pausing for a second to check the magazine rack to see if there were any nudies. There weren’t.

  After the sheriff had dismissed them with the warning that he would be coming up the hill later to get full written statements, they stood next to the Jeep, talking around the events that had left a man dead on the beach.

  “ Can we stay and see what happens next?” J.P. asked.

  “ I think we should go home and let the police do their job,” Judy said.

  “ Aw, Mom!”

  “ I think your mother is right, the police have enough to do without us getting in the way,” Ann said.

  “ Can we get some Ding Dongs then?”

  “ J.P. loves frozen Ding Dongs,” Judy explained.

  “ So I’ve learned,” Rick said.

  “ Rick likes ’em, too,” Ann said.

  “ Does Rick like everything you like?” Judy asked.

  “ Pretty much,” Rick answered for the boy.

  “ Rick doesn’t get on with too many people, but he’s really taken to J.P.,” Ann said.

  “ Not fair, I like people.” Rick brushed hair from his eyes.

  “ In great moderation. It’s good this isn’t a big city or we’d have been long gone.”

  “ So I like small towns.”

  “ Is that why you bought the house on the hill?” Judy asked.

  “ It’s always been our dream to settle down in an isolated house in the woods. Quiet and private, with nobody around.”

  “ But you like to be around me, don’tcha?”

  “ J.P., we couldn’t have a better person to share the hill with. We’re glad you moved next door and we like being around you. You can come over anytime you want,” Ann said.

  “ I’m glad, because I like doing stuff with Rick. He doesn’t treat me like a kid.” J.P. was squinting, trying to see what the policemen were doing on the beach. He turned away and looked down the street. “Can we get the Ding Dongs now?” He pointed to Singh’s Bait and Convenience Store.

  “ I don’t think so, J.P.,” his mother said.

  “ But we’re out,” the boy pleaded.

  “ We need milk anyway,” Ann said.

  Rick thought Ann was making an excuse, so they could stay longer and see what happened next, without feeling like freeway rubberneckers. He decided to help her out by starting off in the direction of the convenience store, leaving the three others to drift along in his wake.

  They entered the store to the ringing of three golden bells. Jaspinder Singh looked up and smiled at one of life’s coincidences and wondered if he should tell Rick Gordon about the man that had just left.

  Then the warning bells went off again and one of life’s many burdens came through the door for the second time that morning. “Can I be helping you, Mr. Gundry?” Jaspinder Singh asked.

  Gundry ignored him, eyes wandering over the store.

  “ You are not wanting more wine?”

  “ No.”

  “ Then for what are you wanting?”

  “ Something to eat.” He shuffled toward the breakfast cereal, picked up a box of Wheaties with his left hand and held it in front of his face, like he was reading the back of the box.

  “ Can you guys come over for coffee?” Judy Donovan said as the group was approaching the counter.

  “ Sure,” Ann Gordon replied, “no way would we leave you two alone after what happened out there.”

  “ What happened out where?” Jaspinder Singh asked.

  “ A man tried to kill my mom and Rick ran him down.”

  “ Big city crime in our little town?” Singh shook his head. “What is this world coming to?”

  “ Right on the beach. Killed ’em,” J.P. said.

  “ Can we get some wine?” Ann asked from the back of the store.

  Gundry tried to replace the Wheaties with a shaking hand and caused an avalanche of cereal boxes. Startled, he jumped back and dropped something on the floor. The clank of metal on cement riveted Singh’s attention. A man at the magazine rack took his face out of Field and Stream. A man with a bag of bait froze. Judy gasped, Ann stared wide-eyed.

  “ It’s the knife!” J.P. shouted.

  And Jaspinder Singh saw Sam Storm enter the store and take in the situation as Rick Gordon started for Gundry, then he grabbed for the gun he kept on the shelf under the cash register.

  Gundry looked confused as he snatched the knife from the floor and charged Rick with his right arm extended, hand holding the blade like a jousting knight. Rick stopped, stood his ground, stepped out of the way of the stumbling Gundry and brought a bottle of red wine down on his head. Gundry folded, all tension leaving his body as he went down.

  Singh had his gun trained on the action, felt his arms shaking as he held the automatic in a two handed grip, saw Rick Gordon dive for the floor.

  “ It’s okay, Mr. Gordon, I won’t be shooting you.”

  “ You’re sure?” Rick Gordon said.

  “ Absolutely.” Despite the circumstances, he was tempted to laugh as he lowered the weapon. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t an idiot either, he’d been afraid. However, he didn’t back down. He’d acted like a real American.

  “ Big gun,” Rick said as he got up.

  “ He was coming at you with a big knife.” Singh put the weapon back on the shelf under the register.

  “ Yes, he was.” Rick dusted off as the store came to life.

  Everyone crowded around Gundry. Sam Storm bent to take his pulse. “Dead,” he said.

  “ Somebody better go for the police,” the man that had been reading Field and Stream said.

  “ Sheriff Sturgees is across the street,” Ann said. Then added, “I’ll go.” But light flashed through the store before she had a chance to move. Then the lights went out.

  In the excitement no one saw Sam Storm pick up the Bowie knife. They didn’t see the dead Gundry’s hand close on Storm’s arm, They didn’t see him jump away and they didn’t suspect a thing when he eased himself out of the store.

  He tossed the knife on the passenger’s side of his old, brown Ford Granada, started the car and drove. Something was happening. He felt light headed. He reached and scratched the itching sensation on the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right.

  He made the first left without thinking, then the next left, then the next, and he found himself driving past the convenience store. Something was drawing him back. He continued on and found himself driving around the block for a second time. This time he parked across the street and down the block from the store.

  He lit a cigarette and thought about Gordon.

  He would sit tight and see what developed. He’d been after Rick Gordon for years, not that he could do much unless he caught him with a smoking gun, but he was convinced that he hadn’t retired. Once they taste the easy money they never quit.

  It had taken him over twenty years to put it all together, but he’d done it. From that first scratchy record in the plain white cover, to the current rash of bootleg CDs, he had been on the case, and behind most of it was Rick Gordon. He was sure of it.

  “ So the electricity goes out in a great white flash and the knife disappears,” the sheriff said through a frown of disbelief.

  “ Yes, sir. That’s about it,” Jaspinder Singh said.

  “ I’ll ask it again. Where’s the knife?” the sheriff said.

  “ Not here.” Ann was the first to speak.

  “ There was a knife,” J.P. said. “I saw it.”

  “ Me, too,” his mother said.

  “ That enough for you, Sheriff?” Rick said. For a short moment he thought he was in trouble, the kind of trouble he didn’t n
eed.

  “ No, it’s not. What I’d like to see is the knife.” He bent to see if it might have slipped under one of the food counters. “Not here.”

  “ There was a knife,” Judy said.

  “ It’s not here now.”

  “ Somebody took it, that’s for sure,” Jaspinder Singh said. “It was right there, bigger than life.”

  “ Well, if there was a knife, then one of you took it.”

  “ No, sheriff, there were two others here. A man reading the magazines, who is now gone and a private detective. They are not here now.”

  “ That’s right,” Ann said.

  “ Private detective?” The sheriff turned to Singh. “What did he want?”

  “ He was asking if I saw a certain person in town,” Jaspinder Singh said.

  “ What person? Who?”

  “ I am not remembering.”

  “ How could you forget?” the sheriff asked with the edge of anger creeping into his voice.

  “ I would remember if it was somebody I was knowing, but a name I have never heard is a thing easy to forget, especially after what has happened this morning.”

  The sheriff turned toward Rick.

  “ You know I’m going to have to hold you for this.”

  “ No, I don’t know that. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “ Two men are dead because of you.”

  “ That’s absolutely not true. That bum on the beach was going to kill Judy, and that bum there,” he pointed to Gundry’s body, “came at me with a knife. There’s a world of witnesses to both events.”

  “ You used deadly force.”

  “ Come on, Sheriff. I hit a man who was trying to kill me with a bottle of wine. It’s not like I used a gun.”

  “ Sheriff, it is without a doubt that the dead Mr. Gundry was going mad. He was going to kill Mr. Gordon,” Jaspinder Singh said.

  “ Without doubt,” Rick added.

  “ Even if I agree, I’m going to need you to come in and make a statement.”

  “ And I’ll be glad to do it,” Rick said.

  “ J.P., get away from there,” Judy scolded. Her son was bent over the corpse, the second dead body he’d seen that morning.

  “ There’s blood,” the boy said.