by Mike Walsh
And then he met Buddy. Buddy had a scam on the pay phone. When a customer made a call, Buddy would be right there to drop his nickel in before the change dropped into the box. He would pick up the receiver quickly, drop in his nickel and then hang up. All the money from the previous caller would also be returned. The pay phone was out the side door in a little alcove, with another door out to the parking lot. Michael was straightening out the hose out back, pulling it straight to the side and spotted Buddy hanging around the door. He kept his eye on him for awhile, saw him duck into the side door as a customer came out, and come back out a minute or so later. After three of four times, Michael sidled on down and asked him what he was doing.
“Nothing, why? What’s it to you? You writing a book, or something?”
Michael was surprised at the sudden attack by this kid. He was smaller and would be easy to thump out, but he looked wiry and mean, so Michael backed off.
“Hey, just asking. Thought you might want something to eat, or something.”
“Nah, sorry, they call me Buddy. Who’re you?”
“I work here. Michael... Michael O’Hara.”
“Oh, OK. You won’t tell Wilma, will you?”
“Tell Wilma what? That you’re hanging around? Why would she care?”
“Crap, not that. The phone thing. She caught me before and will call the cops next time.”
“For what? Using the phone?”
“No, man, watch.”
Buddy proceeded to show Michael how to catch the coins and Michael thought that was a real neat moneymaker. So Buddy and Michael became partners in crime, so to speak, one robbing the coin box, the other watching out.
One night after work, Michael met Buddy and his face was pretty beat up. “What happened to you? Looks like someone kicked your ass good, Buddy.”
“Forget it, it’s nothing. Let’s go scam some beer. I’m thirsty.”
Later, after much cajoling, Buddy told Michael how his old man would get drunk and take life’s miseries out on Buddy. They lived in a little trailer backed up against one of the town’s tallest office buildings. Totally out of place, but the owner would never sell so they built on two sides of the tiny lot that left a triangular slice.
“Want me to talk to him?” Michael asked, using his best George Raft voice. Laughing, trying to cheer up Buddy. Astonished and scared when Buddy agreed.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I mean, not talking to him, but come on home with me sometimes. Maybe with a witness around sometimes, he won’t be so quick to strike. Know what I mean? What do you say? OK?”
Michael said “Sure, why not. Sounds OK to me.” And I’ll have my razor ready just in case, he thought.
A couple nights later, Buddy came around Wilma’s to find Michael.
“My old man’s in the bar and getting smashed. I need to go home for awhile. You want to come? I can wait till your shift ends.”
“Yeah, OK, Buddy, give me ten more minutes.”
They walked across the square and around a couple of blocks to the tall building, and then around the block to the trailer. It was still light out and you could see what an eyesore this place was right in the middle of downtown. A few old tires and bicycle parts didn’t help. It was a one bedroom and Buddy slept on the couch in the only other room. A little kitchen separated the two rooms with a bathroom somewhere in back, Michael supposed. He had just sat down on an overstuffed chair when the door crashed open and Buddy’s father tromped in.
“Who the hell’s this?” pointing at Michael and looking at Buddy.
“My friend, Michael, Pa. We just stopped in so I could change and go to the bathroom. We’ll be going right soon, OK?” Buddy hustled into the back.
“Get out of my chair, boy. And wait outside. I got something to say to that kid. Go on, git.”
Michael was more than happy to “git.” He went outside and sat on a tire to wait for Buddy. It wasn’t a long wait. He came flying out the door behind an open-handed slap. Michael caught him and they ran like hell down the street.
“I guess that didn’t work, huh Michael?”
Michael asked Wilma that if he left her employ and went to work at Donovan’s, could he still bunk out at the boardinghouse and she said, “No, I think I’d need that for a new boy, maybe.” She thought Donovan’s was way out of town and why would he think he could get a job there, anyway. Michael said he’d think about it and let her know. Wilma put the dishwasher wanted sign out that night.
Michael didn’t tell Wilma that Angie, the waitress that had quit the week before came back for some stuff and told Michael about the job at Donovan’s. They needed a busboy and bar stocker real bad and she knew Michael could do the job, and for more money than what Wilma was paying. Michael hitched out the six miles on the Odessa road and talked to Mrs. Donovan. She appeared to like Michael right off and said he could start anytime he could get out of Wilma’s.
As it turned out, Buddy’s old man was doing 30 days for drunk and disorderly, so Michael moved in with Buddy temporarily.
Michael fit right in at Donovan’s. It was a large supper club with a long bar, dining opposite, a large separate dining room and a band and dance floor. Besides keeping the bar full of beer and liquor, Michael hauled the big trays of dishes left by the kitchen door by the waiters and when he could, cleaned off the tables himself. He also moved the salads and deserts to the serving bar from the prep area. And anything else he could do that helped. He also spent a lot of time avoiding Mrs. Donovan. Her husband spent all his time in the office, but she was out there, milling around, hello to this one, kissy-peck that one and grabbing Michael’s ass whenever she had the chance. It was all in fun, she implied, but Michael knew it was trouble and knew he should not plan on retiring here. Even if she did look like Yvonne DeCarlo.
One day they were sitting around drinking beer, and chewing the fat. Michael worked nights now, and Harry, Buddy’s father, started asking Michael questions about his work. What do you do? What is this? What is that? And so on. Then “You get the booze from that shack attached to the back of the place, huh, Mikey?” He called Michael “Mikey.”
“Yes sir, I got a hand truck to haul it inside.”
“Keep all the beer and liquor out there, huh Mikey?”
“Yes sir. It’s all insulated and keeps pretty cool.”
“Keeps it on a padlock, I guess, huh?” A nod from Michael.
“Suppose you got the key, huh Mikey? Keep the key in your pocket, huh?”
“No sir, keep the key on a hook under the bar register. Behind the stud so it can’t be seen. Mr. Donovan, when he comes out to the bar register always reaches down and feels the key there. Always does that.”
“Yeah, but he just feels the key, makes sure it’s there, right? I mean, if it were another key sorta like the right one, why he wouldn’t know, would he? Would he, Mikey?”
“Er... I guess not, sir.” Michael could see where this was going.
Actually, there was no padlock. Donovan was no dummy. Any moron with a screwdriver or hammer could pop off a padlock. No, he had a thick steel cased door with two large dead bolts installed. And the alarm system extended to the door. No way anyone was going in without the key and the alarm off.
Michael thought he’d get a different key and give to Harry when his arm was twisted. But if it didn’t work, he’d be in big trouble. Either way, he saw the road out of town starting to look good right about now. But then, maybe there was a way. Maybe if Harry was locked up for a good long while, things would be easier for Buddy. Michael made up his mind. He would try to set Harry up to get caught by the cops. He decided to call the cops with some made up story to see how long it would take them to respond. Then when Harry was stealing the booze, he could call the police and he would get caught. Sounded like a good plan.
That night, he went out to the pay phone and looked up the number for the police in the book. He popped in a nickel and dialed.
“Police department, how can we help you?”
“There’s a big fight out by Donovan’s. Some guys in pickups slamming each other. I think they’re drunk.” Michael hung up before the cop could ask anything else. He went out to the bar and checked the clock. Then he went out to the parking lot to wait. When he saw the red blinking lights of the police car, he ducked inside and checked the clock again. Eight minutes, must have been flying. He went back out to the parking lot and told the cop there was some guys fighting in the lot, but they took off, Odessa direction. The cop waved, got on his radio and Michael went back inside.
“I got it all set up, Mikey. You get the key and we’re in and out of there in ten minutes with a nice load of booze.”
“Why don’t you just pop the lock off? Then I’m out of it.”
“No way, they’ll find out faster that way. You bring the key tomorrow, and tomorrow night after closing we’ll hit it. Tomorrow, Mikey. No slip ups. Here’s a key you can slip back on the hook in case someone checks. Take it. No slip ups, hear?”
• • •
Michael did as he was told and the next morning handed over the key. When he left for work that afternoon, he packed his little valise with the stuff he wanted to keep and take with him when he hit the road. He usually carried a small valise to work and brought back left over food and some beer. Tonight his bag was full going out. That night, Mrs. Donovan was extra frisky, grabbing Michael every chance, making remarks. Mr. Donovan saw a few times and made some grim faces. Michael didn’t like it. Everything was coming apart.
“Michael, bring my car around. I might leave early.” He always brought her car around from the back parking lot to the front of the club so she would not need to walk back in the dark. The key was always on the floor under the seat, and Michael left it there after parking in front. After the last bar customer had staggered out the door, Michael started cleaning up. The bartender left and Michael put out the lights. The night lights left an eerie pallor to the large rooms. Michael thought it should be quiet, but loud angry arguing was coming from the back. Michael couldn’t make out the words so he eased himself across the dining room closer to the back hall and office. He was chewing her out about fooling around with him. Oh, boy. Where’s my bag.
As instructed by Buddy’s father, Michael was supposed to make like he had left and hide out. Then, after Mr. Donovan left, he was always the last one out, turn the alarm back off. He bumped a table. He heard from inside, “What’s that! Who’s out there? That kid waiting for you?”
“Put the gun down, Ray! Are you crazy? Everyone’s gone!”
Michael didn’t wait. He rushed silently across the dining room, across the bar and out the front door. Her car? She’s supposed to be gone. Michael hopped in and started the big Packard and pulled it around the side past the parking lot into some scrub, deep in the dark. He tossed the keys under the seat and ran back to the front door, pulled it open and went in for his valise. That’s when he heard the shot. Then two more! What the hell? Someone coming fast, sounding like Mrs. Donovan. Michael crouched down at the end of the curve in the bar. He could duck either way depending on which way she came by. She stopped at the other end of the bar. Michael could hear the heavy breathing, almost a sob or two. Then she walked halfway down the bar to the register. Michael sneaked a peek, the night lights a soft glow, down, lifting the wooden drain board. Then the invisible plate hiding an old cash hideaway, not used anymore. She slipped something inside. He could see her long black hair drooped over her face as she bent and replaced the covers. She stood half way up, looking down, rubbing her hands on her thighs. Then she bolted out the front door. Michael could have touched her as she passed. He was faint with fear but he got it together and scurried behind the bar, low down and into the dining room. He scurried across the opposite end of the office to the side door. He picked up the phone, dropped in the nickel left on top and dialed the number written on the wall.
“Someone’s breaking into Donovan’s liquor storage, and I think I heard shots. Maybe you better come check it out!” He hung up quickly. Then he heard screaming out front in the bar. It was Mrs. Donovan.
“Someone stole my fuckin’ car! I can’t believe someone stole my fuckin’ car! God damn!”
• • •
Michael ran out the side door as lights clicked off a van and it cruised slowly to the back of the club. Harry, right on time. He backed back into the bar and eased the door shut. Christ, he was in this all the way. Harry’s got his key getting ready to rob the liquor shed, a probable dead man in the office, and a screaming wife in the bar. And the cops five minutes away. Michael raced to the office, ducking so Mrs. Donovan couldn’t see him. She was now sitting at a table, her head down in her hands, sobbing. The office door was open and Donovan had his face on the desk, one arm thrown around it, the other dangling down. Michael felt he would heave, swallowed hard and went to Donovan’s side. He reached in and found the key ring clipped to his belt. He found the right key, eased it off the ring and rushed back out to the bar. Mrs. Donovan was gone. He crept down the aisle of the bar, slipped the key on the hook and lifted the covers off the hiding place. As he thought, a big black gun lay there. He took a bar rag and lifted the gun out, wrapping it. Two minutes to go. He panicked as he ran out the door and across the parking lot to the Packard but managed to keep it together. There was no moon so he was sure he could not be seen. He stopped at the edge of the lot, bent over with his hands on his knees and breathed deeply. In through his nose and out his mouth, three times. Now he calmed down. The gun was against his knee and felt cold, even through the bar rag. He could see activity from the back of the club. And more screaming, again sounding like Mrs. Donovan. She must have caught Harry and his crew. Michael opened the back door of the Packard. The light doesn’t go on when you open the back doors. He slipped the wrapped gun under the front seat and closed the door carefully. He moved away silently into the scrub as the police car coming into the parking lot silent.
Another car, unmarked, followed close behind. Probably detectives. They blocked off the van Harry and some other guy was running to and a plainclothes cop got out of the other car and stopped Mrs. Donovan, who was heading for the side door.
“Hold up there, Viola. What’s going on here? Where’s Ray? He inside?”
“Ray? No. He must have left. I came out to get my car and found it gone. Those men must have stolen it. They broke into the liquor storage and were taking cases out. How’d you get here so fast? What are you doing here, Ed? I don’t understand.”
“Hey sergeant, there’s a car in the scrub back there. Looks like a Packard.”
“That’s yours, ain’t it Viola? A Packard. Go see if the keys are in it, Chuck, check it over real careful like. Don’t touch anything.”
“Where does Ray park his car, Viola? Around the other side under that little carport, doesn’t he? Billy, after you get those two locked in the back, go around the building, look for another car.”
“Let’s go inside, Viola.”
“Ed, I swear, I don’t know what’s going on. I came out and my car was gone. It’s always parked right out front before closing.”
“Well, Viola, right off the bat, you got some story problems. Why would you leave with the doors unlocked and the alarm off when you say Ray’s gone? We both know Ray doesn’t leave until everything is locked up tight. So maybe he’s back in his office, huh? Let’s take a look.”
As they entered the office and found the body, Chuck ran in all flushed.
• • •
“Sarge, look what I found under the seat. A gun. All wrapped real nice in this towel. I didn’t touch it or rub it, just like you said.”
“Well, well, look’it here. You ever see this before, Viola? For a woman who just found her husband dead, you don’t look to upset. Or have you already seen him dead?”
Michael, in the scrub behind some bushes was watching. Another car pulled in the lot. A big man got out of the back, pulled on his pants and walked towards the group by the police car. The detective sergean
t had come out of the club with Mrs. Donovan.
“What’s the score, Ed? Radio said you had a shooting and a body.”
“Hi chief, glad you came by. It shakes out like this, I think. Viola here wanted Ray killed, for what reason I’m sure will turn up. She hires these mugs to kill him or at least drag him out to the liquor shack to make it look like he interrupts a robbery, gets shot for it. Problem is, we get a call and show up to early. We find the gun under Viola’s car seat. This dumb bird in the car there has the key to the locker. We check under the register and that key’s there. But the one on Ray’s ring is missing. Seems like a pretty good wrapped package to me.”
Michael slipped out to the road, got past the club towards Odessa and started walking. He was amazed to see he still had hold of his valise.
Chapter 11 – Odessa, Texas
Michael hoped they all got what they deserved. It sure looked that way. Well, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.