by Mike Walsh
The clock on the stove said he had been here one hour and ten minutes. Hunker down and wait. Sit in Frank’s chair by the kitchen window and wait. He could see most of the way down the road, and would probably see road dust first. Wait and see. Mull over how to do it.
Could he really do it? He was calm now, but Frank was a powerful man. He could walk right up and pull the gun away before he’d know what was happening. He needed an edge. Get him away from a doorway. Get him into the larger living room, his back against the back wall, hold the gun from the doorway, no where to duck. Turn on the television, he’ll think he left it on, get him to come in the living room right away, come out of the hallway through the kitchen and behind him. If he turns the television off, cock both hammers so he can hear them. That should do it. Yeah.
• • •
He saw the dust first, at 3:10 in the afternoon and ran to turn on the recorder. He figured he had at least an hour of recording time. That should be plenty. He stood to the side of the window until the truck parked at the kitchen door. Frank stumbled out the door, almost fell, slammed the door shut. Left his rifle in the cab. Good luck there. Bad luck him being drunk. Michael grabbed the shotgun and ducked in the hall and back from the doorway. If Frank came into the hall first, it would get tricky.
The kitchen door slammed open and was slammed shut, shaking the whole house. Shit, drunk and mad too. What crappy luck. Frank marched right into the living room, plopped into his chair and fell asleep or passed out. This would be more difficult if it was dark before he woke up.
Michael walked softly to the living room and switched on the overhead light. It didn’t make much difference and didn’t disturb Frank. He then put on the hall and kitchen lights.
He thought it would be good if he could hobble Frank with something, doing so without waking him. He didn’t want to risk leaving the house to get some rope, so he went to the office and jerked the cord off the lamp. He stopped to look at the recorder, now about a quarter run, stopped and rewound it. He started it up again.
Frank was snoring loudly and seemed to be really out. He set the shotgun by the kitchen entry. Frank was wearing high-top shoes and wouldn’t feel a little wire lying on them. He crawled to the back of the chair facing the television that had a soap opera on turned up to normal volume. It hadn’t seemed to bother Frank at all. He stayed down at the side of the chair and reached across to his feet. They were a foot or so apart. He first tied around one shoe loosely, but not enough that it could be slipped over the shoe, and then the other, leaving ten or so inches between his feet. That should slow him down. Frank’s chair was facing the television and Michael wanted it more to the left, facing the couch and the microphone. But he could still get up and Michael was still leery of that. He rooted around the drawers in the kitchen and came up with a ball of twine. He made a hangman’s knot on one end, big enough to fit over Frank’s head, dropped it over his head and snugged it up to about an inch play. The other end he tied to the chair leg, an overstuffed heavy chair, and slid the cord so it would be behind Frank when his chair was moved.
Now the tricky part. Turn Frank’s chair a quarter turn moving his feet a little at a time and not wake him up. Not yet, anyway. When he was finished, Michael sat on the couch facing Frank, pointing the shotgun at him, with the butt against the couch to take the kickback, should he need to fire it. Looks good. Time to rewind the tape again.
Michael got tired of waiting for Frank to wake up, so he went through his plan again and threw a pillow at Frank. He was about six feet away and Frank didn’t flinch. Michael picked up the pillow and kicked Frank hard in the leg. He sat down quickly, holding the shotgun aimed at Frank’s belly.
“Yeowee!” Frank let out a bellow.
Michael jumped, still surprised even though he was expecting it, re-aiming the shotgun. Frank jerked forward and the twine pulled tight on his neck.
“What the hell?” He reached for his neck and tried to get up. The twine pulled him back into his seat.
“Hey! What’s this? What the hell damn is going on?” His eyes were bleary and it didn’t look like he saw Michael. Michael waited until he settled down a bit and Frank finally looked and saw him. He thought he had his attention, shock and a quizzical look on his face, flushed with drink. Michael heard the loud Click! Click! as he pulled back the hammers on the shotgun. Frank heard them too.
He got sober and quiet, looking with squinting, unblinking watery eyes at Michael, now recognizing him. Michael liked to shit he was so scared. This was it and he could not handle it. His hands were tingling.
“What you gonna do, belly shoot me like I done the old lady?” A sneering laugh from a tight mouth, in control now. A confession. Good enough.
“Yer shaking like an old lady, kid. Yer not going to shoot anybody. Look’it you. Wettin’ your pants, I’ll bet. Gimme that gun before you shoot your feet off.”
Frank lunged, and was snapped back, forgetting the neck twine. He pulled at it and had it off in seconds. He stood up and fell flat on his face when he tried to take a step. His hands were outstretched and Michael quickly stood up, put one foot on each of his hands and the shotgun muzzle hard on his head. He was okay now.
• • •
“OK, Frank, you got two choices only. Don’t move and listen to me or move and I pull both triggers. Know I can’t get away but you’ll be dead. Now I don’t want to kill you, just talk, but I will if you make me. I’m dead anyway, the way you got me framed. What’s it gonna be, Frank? What’s it gonna be?”
A mumble. His face was in the carpet. Michael used the muzzle to move his head sideways a little. “Let me up. We’ll talk.”
“Close your eyes, work your way back to the chair.”
Michael stepped back till his legs touched the couch.
“Now get up and sit back in the chair.”
Frank did as he was told and opened his eyes. He couldn’t hide the anger and hatred in those eyes, bloodshot with drink. He looked straight at Michael, then the shotgun. Michael sat down, tucking the butt of the shotgun against the couch again. He started to tremble again, but got over it.
“You killed your wife and blamed it on me. I probably won’t be able to prove otherwise, it being your word against mine, so I got to get away as fast as I can. I need some money. I haven’t got any. You got to give me some money so I can get away. You help me and I won’t get caught and you’re home free. What do you say, Frank? You want to get away with murder?”
Frank stared at the kid long and hard. Finally, he came to a decision. A right one, Michael could see, as his face softened. Here comes the bullshit, Michael thought. Perfect.
“OK Kid, sorry I got you all caught up in this, but what was I gonna do? The old lady wasn’t going to spring with any of that money, not as long as she lived. You know how it is. You have to see the position I was in. I owed money all over town and she’s sitting on the biggest bundle you ever saw. What the hell, at least you didn’t fall for the sack routine and get shot with her. At least you’re still alive. What are we talking about here? I got about 40 bucks on me, but I can get more. How we gonna work this?”
“Well Frank, this is the way I see it. You don’t want them to catch me, at least not alive. That could really complicate things for you. Someone might take me seriously me being a juvenile and, well, you know what I mean. So I think we should trust each other. You get the money and not turn me in and I’ll get away and won’t spill the beans. A few years from now, all is forgotten. That’s the way I see it Frank. How do you see it?’
“Alright. Alright. I see your point. It could get messy. I’ll go to the bank and get the money. $500. That enough? That’s about all I got.”
“Yeah, but give me the forty now. And I’m not waiting here for you to maybe bring the cops back. I’ll trust you, Frank, but not much. Give me the forty bucks and go on down to the sheep shed and do what you do, whatever that is, and stay there for an hour or so. Then go to the bank in the morning and get the money. Put it i
n an envelope. Toss it into the ditch when you turn off 40. I’ll find it. Now give me the forty and get on down there.”
“You got it all worked out, huh kid. Nice plan. OK, I’ll go along with it. Here’s the money. I’ll be there and back here by ten. OK?”
Michael took the money and ushered Frank at gun-point out the back office door and watched until he was all the way down to the sheep shed. It was getting dark and he had to hurry. Didn’t want Frank sneaking back in the dark and catching him. He flung the shotgun under the bed, quickly rewound the tape and put it in the can. He raced to the front door, grabbed his food bag and ran to the ditch. It was downhill to the sheep shed and slightly downhill from the front of the house to the county road, so Michael was not worried about Frank seeing him leave.
It was almost dark now anyway and Michael was counting on that when he got to the police car. If it was still there. And if the cop was inside.
He crouched as close as he dared and tried to see if the window was open on his side. It looked like it was half way down. He sat in the ditch and waited. The cop was not smoking in the car and probably liked to get out and stretch his legs and have a smoke every hour or so. It was only about twenty minutes Michael figured, when the cop opened his door, stretched, adjusted his cap and started walking across the dirt road and towards the state road. He stopped, lit a cigarette and put his hands on his hips.
Michael took this chance, got up out of the ditch and slipped the can of tape through the window onto the seat, his note face up. He went back to the ditch, picked up his food bag, waggled his way around the corner and was gone.
He watched the papers at every truck stop until...
...there it was.
“Husband Kills Wife. Frames Vagrant.” The story went on to tell how the cop found a tape can in his car with a note glued on that said, “Listen to this and catch a killer.”
Michael felt good and treated himself to a slice of custard pie and a glass of milk.
Chapter 8 – Arkansas
Michael walked across the state line into Arkansas on a narrow two-lane paved road in the middle of another hot, mosquito biting day. There were bushes and trees growing wild everywhere. An occasional house or shack would appear every once in awhile, looking dispirited and forlorn. How could anyone live out here and what do they do?
Michael slept in a large clump of bushes at night, more hiding than sleeping. During the day, Michael ducked into the bushes and watched the pickups and old cars go by with the scraggly, bearded men in bib-overalls and mean looking younger guys riding in back, sometimes a rifle in the back window, and all looked bad to Michael. No way was he going to hitch on this road. Maybe he’d come to a highway soon and get off this backwoods trail. How did he get here anyway?
When he woke the third morning, it was to a poke in the side with a stick. The kid holding the stick was about his age and his friend was a little younger.
“What’cha doing?” the younger boy said.
The older one stepped back a little wary when Michael moved, and held the stick back. Michael just looked at the boys and said nothing. They had on bib overalls, space between their teeth and hair sticking out every which way. Finally, they looked at each other and in unison, turned and ran off away from the road into the underbrush. Michael quickly hopped up and got on the road, thinking “safety of the road” but not really believing it. He kept looking back as he walked quickly west. He passed an apple and pear orchard and gorged himself until full. He stuffed his pockets with more and kept on.
He was rounding a bend in the road when a pickup came around the bend and screeched to a sliding halt close and in front of him. He had no chance to get off the road and hide in the bushes. Four young guys jumped out of the bed of the pickup, and one from the cab. They were all over him, screeching and buzzing around like he was from another planet. They surrounded him, hopping up and down, chanting like an old western cowboy and Indian movie. They circled him and didn’t seem to have a plan of action. Then the driver came out of the pickup, walked around the truck and snapped a bull whip that cracked like a rifle shot.
“We need to teach this boy a lesson,” he said.
The other boys moved back quickly, making the circle wide and accessible to the apparent leader and his bull whip. The boy, maybe a year or two older than Michael, as was most of the others, snapped the whip that landed two feet away from Michael. He whipped it again and was nowhere close to Michael. Michael could see this asshole knew nothing about whips.
He stepped forward into the whip range and pulled it from the kid’s hand. He swung the solid hand end into his hand and started swinging it at the kid. The kid ducked and backed off to his truck, jumping into the driver’s seat, and goosed the gas taking off. The rest of the kids, all five of them, looked docile, mumbled things like “OK man,” “let’s move on guys” and stuff like that. They all walked down the road without looking back.
It took Michael three more days to come to a highway that had a sign pointing to Texarkana. Michael knew from a map that was west and on the Texas border, just where he wanted to go. It was 275 miles, a long walk if he didn’t get a ride. The road was a wide cement two lane about as straight as you could see with gas stations and cafes on both sides stretched out for miles. The trees and bushes were way behind the buildings giving the highway a deserted look. The few vehicles that went by were going west and were mostly trucks. Michael figured on catching a ride from a trucker at a truck stop that was going all the way into Texas. He just did not like Arkansas.
After walking several miles, he came upon a ramshackle grocery store of sorts with a bar on the side and a dozen pickups parked in the dirt lot surrounding the building. Michael could hear country music coming from inside, howling and laughter drowning out the vocals.
A drunk came reeling out the bar door, hair all messed up, bib overalls half undone, broken yellow teeth all grinning. Michael stopped in front of the grocery to watch and the man stumbled his way trying to say something. Sounded like “Here boy, you got to drive me home. I can’t drive. I got to get home. C’mere boy. Drive me home.” He was right on top of Michael now and grabbed his shirt. “C’mon boy, wazza madder wid you? Let’s go home.”
He must have thought Michael was someone else, standing by his pickup. He stumbled to the side of the pickup, grabbed the rolled sides and slid down kind of hanging there. Michael took off, not running, but not casual either. Looking back when he was a mile away, Michael could almost make out the pickup still there.
At a large truck stop, he picked out a couple of trucks facing west that looked fairly new and waited in the shade for the drivers. The first one to come out looked like he was from back east and so Michael approached him.
“Can I get a ride west with you, sir.”
The trucker stopped and looked him over. Apparently satisfied that Michael was not a local that was going to slit his throat, he told Michael to hop in.
“We’re on our way. Whereabouts you headed?” they always asked.
“California,” Michael said for the first time.
He thought this guy was OK and didn’t mind saying something of the truth. Hard to sort out, though, with all the stories he had to make up. “My family moved there earlier this year, but I had to stay back to help my Grandpa until all the crops were in. Now they’re waiting for me.” Oh well, so much for trying, he thought.
“Well, I’m only going to Big Spring, but that’s about all the way across Texas, a good start from here. How you fixed for food money? Got any?”
Michael shook his head no, but said, “I’m OK.”
The trucker bought Michael a good meal at a truck stop before rolling into Big Spring. They had made a stop in Fort Worth, having driven right through Dallas. Michael was glad of that. Across Dallas looked like a long walk.
Chapter 9 – Big Spring, Texas
The “Spring” obviously meant oil gushes, because that was what Big Spring was all about. Oil derricks everywhere, including in
people’s back yards. There was even one on a median in the middle of a town street. Michael thought it was the ugliest town he’d ever seen. The truck driver was only going this far so Michael thought he’d just stay on the road and keep going.
“There’s an oilman’s flop house just down the street if you need a place to bunk tonight, kid. Fifty cents for a bed and bath.”
On second thought, Michael thought he could use a bath and to sleep in a bed for the night would be a dream come true. He thanked the driver and hustled down and off towards the huge sign over a ramshackle building on the edge of town.
“Bed and Bath 50 cents”
“J. R. Critchen, Prop.”
The building was originally a parking lot for truckers and oilmen who parked their cars and were picked up and taken to the trucks or the job. Men liked to drive their cars or pickups to the job site these days and truckers took the trucks home, wherever that was. Subsequently, a long and wide series of roofs were built creating a low covered dark cave-like structure with poles here and there to hold up the roofs and tin around the sides. A string of low wattage bulbs burned constantly. At the canvas opening in the front sat a chubby J. R., chewing on a dead cigar, hair growing profusely out of nose and ears, droopy wet eyes staring over fat jowls.