The Accomplice: The Stairway Press Edition

by Darryl Ponicsan

  “Tell me there, ace, you a superstitious soft?”

  The wetback ranch hand he was talking to smiled and slapped his shoulder and shook his hand, anything to avoid admitting he didn’t understand a single word of English.

  Beef turned to another, determined to be more direct. “Say, ace, do you think witches are for real?”

  More explanation was required. “Witches,” said Beef, “witches,” and he pantomimed a witch, to the broomstick and cackle.

  They laughed and applauded and someone shouted “¡Olé!’

  One man approached him to tell him about the morning his baby boy saw the Virgin of Guadalupe floating on the ceiling.

  Sometimes Beef saw Gordon curled up in the back seat of the murder car, other times it was Yanez, until it hardly seemed to matter. Always it was Montalvo walking up the steps, his hand on the gun, in the dark, quiet night. “I got your husband in my car. He’s really drunk. He told me to take him here.”

  He had written Gordon’s Denver number on the edge of his figuring table, next to the text on psychopathology, and had called him a few times. Gordon would not speak to him or return his calls. Beef wanted assurance from him that he was not the one in the back seat of that murder car.

  One night Beef had a dream from which he awoke screaming so loudly that his landlady told him he would have to move. In his dream he saw himself curled up in the back seat of the murder car, waiting for Montalvo to lead down Maria.

  His reason for living was locked within that night Montalvo led her to the car, and nature, man’s or the universe’s, was attempting to obliterate too many traces of the crime. It was not enough that Ginny Mom and the two boys would be gone in two weeks, twelve days exactly. Physical evidence useful to his bizarre investigation was being destroyed or altered, and the cast of characters scattered.

  He could find Mrs. Lister nowhere, though a careful scanning of the obituaries from the time of his imprisonment indicated she might be still alive.

  When he went to look at Ginny’s apartment, he found the whole structure had been leveled and a small shopping center was in its place. The Purple Cow Drive-In was now the Mountain View restaurant. The hot rods and hang-abouts had disappeared and its new booths were filled with businessmen having the luncheon special. The Panama Club was now a secondhand store. Beef walked inside. Where the jukebox had been, now a card table loaded with used coffee percolators, this one missing a top, the other missing a wire, all missing something. Where the bottles had been arranged against the wall, now row upon row of used books, brittle, yellow, and smelly, ten cents apiece. Old items, dust catchers at home, now festooned the ceiling and walls like wisteria at an outdoor confectionery—walls that earlier heard a plot of murder—waiting to catch the eye and imagination of a secondhand-shop scavenger.

  A woman asked if she could help him. Like a fool he answered that no one could.

  Juan Barrajas died in prison, where he had been sent for receiving stolen property; Joyce Shaw, the manager of the apartment from which Maria was kidnapped, had moved to New Jersey.

  Only Beef, of all the accomplices, kept returning to the scene of the crime, doggedly.

  “Nobody’s taking responsibility for this,” he told the street below the window of his room. “Somebody’s got to take the responsibility.”

  The case was like a blown dandelion, but in spite of its fragmentation, Beef Buddusky was able to uncover tiny gems of information, which he dutifully added to his growing number of lists.

  At Howard’s, where Ginny Mom and Mrs. Lister had often had lunch, the waitress told Beef that she nicknamed Ginny “the Duchess,” because she would always leave a penny tip next to her plate but hide a dollar bill under the plate. Beef had the feeling she was confusing Ginny with someone else. He added it to the embarrassingly brief list of Ginny’s redeeming qualities anyway, where he had recorded the fact that when Gordon skinned his knee as a little boy Ginny would paint a Mercurochrome funny face on the wound.

  From Lupe Martinez he learned that Rudy had once sung to her with the voice of an angel, but once only. He was ashamed of having a, singing voice. Beef could not get over it. A singer of songs, and yet he would kill so cold-bloodedly.

  From Goose Yanez’s brother-in-law Beef learned that when Goose went for his Army physical and was told to bend over and spread his cheeks, Goose bent over and spread the cheeks of his face.

  With the help of Martin Lowell, Beef finally located Mrs. Lister in a state-supported rest home. She was bedridden and old beyond estimation and would die soon, but she recognized him and took his proffered hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

  “Bomba,” she said in a dry and cracking voice, like the edges of a badly fried egg. “Bomba.”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Lister, hyuh.”

  “Bomba.”

  He sat down and twisted his forefinger to keep from crying. Lately he found himself crying for everyone. After his conversations with Ferguson he cried for Maria or her killers, and then wound up crying for the district attorney. He feared he might be slipping away from himself.

  “I’m outa prison,” he told Mrs. Lister.

  “Good fellow.”

  “Trying to live a decent life.”

  “You’ll make it, Bomba. My blessings.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He had questions on his mind and had brought his pad and pencil to record her answers, but now he felt reluctant to tax her. He knew, however, that they would not talk again in this life.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “I don’t feel nothing.”

  Beef nodded, his hands on his knees. “Mrs. Lister...”

  “Call me Alma.”

  “Alma, then, do you remember the night they killed Maria Wynn?”

  She shut her eyes and her lower lip trembled.

  “No, now, Alma,” he said, pressing a hand over hers, “there’s only me and you here.”

  She nodded and said, “I remember.”

  Her hand felt like dried chicken bones.

  “Were you with Ginny that night, in her apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, here’s the important thing. Was Gordon with you that night?”

  “He came in later.”

  “You sure? How later?”

  “It seems so long ago, Bomba, did it ever really happen?”

  “You bet, missus. I’d cut off both my arms.”

  “Gordie was not a very good husband to Maria,” said Mrs. Lister.

  “For treating a girl like that, to put it kindly, he should become a girl himself,” said Beef.

  “She was such a beautiful girl. No one could ever deny that.”

  Beef blew his nose. “Sometimes the cruelty of life seems pretty deliberate,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Alma,” said Beef, and it was a long moment before he spoke again. “Alma, what did Ginny Mom have on you?”

  She actually chuckled. “Bomba, what did she have on you?”

  He shook his head, equally unable to answer.

  She was drifting off to sleep. “Mrs. Lister? Mrs. Lister?” He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Alma,” she said.

  “Alma, I sure wasn’t gonna ask, but I gotta. There’s nobody here but you and me. Now, if anyone knows, you do.”

  “What?” she asked, hardly able to keep her eyes open.

  He shook her shoulder gently. “Alma, Alma?” She opened her eyes and looked at him and said, “Bomba, would you call me Mother?”

  “Mother, Mom. Do you have to go to sleep, Mother?” he said, holding her bony little hand between both of his.

  She was already softly snoring.

  SEVEN

  Students of such things were excited to learn, and Beef Buddusky also thought it profoundly significant, that Ginny Wynn, alone among the nation’s sensationally publicized murderers, received no proposals of marriage through the U.S. mail.

  Neither was there a public drive to save her. Of 575 messages on her ca
se reaching the governor, 505 urged that she and her two hired killers be executed. Of the remaining 70, 3 came from Beef Buddusky, awkwardly typed on the library’s coin-operated typewriter.

  The governor, a nationally known opponent of capital punishment, was technically able to grant clemency in spite of public opinion. Those close to him believed him to be leaning that way. No woman had ever been executed in Colorado. This was Yanez’s first conviction. Montalvo, though a prior felon, was very young, a repentant, now known as Rudy Sincere.

  A group of eight Quakers gathered at the outer gate of Canon City with their sleeping bags slung over their shoulders. They silently milled about, beginning their customary nightlong vigil. They carried no signs.

  The prison duty of spending the last night with the condemned is called “sitting the deathwatch.” Two matrons volunteered to sit with Ginny in her cell at the Women’s Institute, four miles away from the chamber. One was Ginny’s age, the other was young.

  The younger one seemed weary even at the outset. “Don’t fret,” Ginny said to her, “I suspect Gordie and Miss Ryan will get me off first thing in the morning.”

  Danny Yanez and Rudy Montalvo, harnessed and shackled, were taken downstairs to the holding cells. They walked down the corridor of death row and called farewell to the condemned still waiting, those still with hope.

  “Gettin’ short,” said Yanez.

  “Walk right under the door,” said one of the condemned.

  “See you tomorrow, boys,” said Montalvo.

  “Better not. There’s enough spooks here already.”

  “Good luck, it’s been fun.”

  “It’s been a gas,” said Yanez, laughing the coldness out of the prison bars.

  The others laughed too, until Rudy and Goose were gone from death row. No one would bet even money on their coming back again.

  Great public interest surrounds the practice of the last meal. What was ordered and, more importantly, how much of it was eaten? The public thinks that the condemned invariably either cannot eat what he orders or throws it up after he has eaten it.

  The public also believes in the tradition that the condemned may have whatever he desires for his last meal. Such is not the case.

  The order is always taken three days before the execution and it breaks the monotony for the men on the row.

  “Give the kids a couple a bowls a frijoles and a tortilla. Make ‘em feel at home.”

  “Make sure to give ‘em a Bromo. They might get gas.”

  “You can have anything you want, within reason,” said the guard taking the order from Montalvo and Yanez.

  “What do you mean, within reason?” asked Montalvo.

  “Well, for instance, you can’t have broiled yak. Broiled yak ain’t within reason.”

  “Yak?” said one of the other men. “They yakked too much already. That’s why they’re here in the first place!”

  Montalvo began to order. “I’ll have filet mignon...”

  “Me too,” said Goose Yanez.

  “...and lobster thermidor and crepes suzette...”

  “That for me too,” said Yanez with very little idea of what he was ordering.

  “Would you like the same as me, Goose?”

  “Yeah, Rudy, like you.”

  “All right, give us with that some French fries, guacamole salad, spareribs...”

  “Ah, nigger hard shells,” said one of the other men.

  “...corn on the cob, coffee and milk, banana cream pie, and ice cream...I guess that’s about it.”

  “Yeah, that’s about it for me too,” said Yanez.

  The press reported what the condemned men ordered. What they got was steak, French fries, peas, green salad, banana cream pie, coffee and milk.

  They ate all of it with gusto and counted it among the best meals of their lives.

  In her cell, Ginny Wynn ordered and received steak, peas, mashed potatoes, and coffee. She couldn’t finish the potatoes. They were a bit lumpy.

  The two holding cells form a right angle so that the partners in crime may enjoy their own society.

  The men were now wearing new blue denim trousers and chambray shirts. On their feet they wore cloth slippers. This too was part of the ritual.

  The two guards who were sitting the deathwatch volunteered to play four-handed cards with them, but Yanez knew no card games and Montalvo could find no reason to try to win.

  They had a phonograph and a selection of records. One of the guards held the records up and flipped through them slowly in front of Montalvo so that he could read the labels. The condemned are never allowed to handle the records themselves because they can be broken and used on the wrists or throat to cheat the state.

  Yanez said, “Rudy, do you think you did the right thing?”

  “What thing?” asked Rudy, still reading the record labels.

  “Givin’ your body to science like that.”

  “Look, at the eye bank some poor blind person can get my eyes and see again.”

  “Yeah, but what good’s that to you?”

  “It’s just nice, I guess. The rest of the body will be good practice for the medical students.”

  “Hey, Rudy Sincere’s goin’ to college tomorrow! He’s gonna be a matriculator. Hey, Joe College!”

  “Oh, shit, try to explain something to you.”

  Rudy stopped the guard and read the record label closely. “Bluebird of Happiness,” sung by Jan Peerce.

  “Play that one,” he said, suddenly excited.

  The guard put it on the phonograph and played it.

  They all listened quietly and when it was over, Rudy said, “Play it again. It’s beautiful.”

  The guard played it again and Rudy asked for another replay.

  Yanez was soon fast asleep. Rudy had the guards play the record over and over throughout the long night, and he sat, almost transfixed, listening to it. In a short time, the guards hated the song more than they thought they could possibly hate any innocent musical composition. They had to take breaks from it and nap for a while. Rudy insisted that the song be played repeatedly, and of course, they could not deny him the pleasure.

  Yanez awoke at six and the first thing he heard was “Bluebird of Happiness.” Rudy sat on the floor, holding the bars and listening intently, as though it held a secret for him. He was humming along now. “Gets a little rep’titious, don’t it?” said Yanez. Rudy did not answer.

  Ginny went to sleep at three o’clock and awoke at seven-thirty. The matrons wished her good morning but she did not speak to them until she was served bacon and eggs and coffee. She flattened the yolk of a fried egg with her tablespoon, the only utensil allowed, and said, “Why do they call them eggs?”

  The two matrons looked at each other, smiled, and shrugged. The older one said, “I don’t know. Because they are eggs.”

  “No, no, no,” said Ginny impatiently. “The cyanide eggs.”

  “Bluebird of Happiness” played unceasingly in the holding cells. At ten minutes before ten, the guards gave them fresh sets of blues to wear.

  Montalvo began to tremble. Yanez looked at him and said, “You gonna shit?”

  “My asshole is twitching!” cried Rudy. “Jesus, it’s gonna turn me inside out!”

  Montalvo slid to the floor. Yanez knelt down at the bars of his own cell and coaxed him back to his feet. “Don’t be a pussy, baby. There’ll be people watchin’ out there,” he said.

  “I can’t help it, my asshole is twitching,” whined Rudy Montalvo.

  The guards rolled a green carpet from the holding cells to the chamber, so that Rudy and Goose would not slip on the slick floor. Because Yanez had had a better record in life, he was led first to the chamber and strapped into seat “A.” There are two seats in the chamber, and the condemned sits with his back to the witnesses, so that they do not have to look at each other. Yanez turned to find the four friends he had invited. His fifth guest was to be District Attorney Ferguson, who declined.

  “Look in on
my kids,” he said to one of his friends.

  When he saw Montalvo being brought through the door of the ready room, pale and trembling and needing the support of the two guards, Yanez yelled, “Well, look who’s here. Have a seat.”

  The guards helped Montalvo into seat “B” and strapped him there.

  Although the official time of a morning execution is 10:00, the warden never gives the signal to lower the eggs until 10:03. This is to compensate for any malfunction of the timepiece, no matter how slight. Also, if the governor is going to call he will certainly call before 10:03, because he knows it is futile to call after that.

  In the maddening silence before the warden’s signal, a melody was heard. It unnerved the staff and witnesses. Rudy was humming the strains of “Bluebird of Happiness.”

  The guards having strapped them securely, each in turn patted their shoulders.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good luck.”

  Yanez smiled and called out, “Hey, Warden, helluva way to make a livin’, ain’t it?”

  Rudy smiled, shut his eyes, and sang two lines of the song in his beautiful voice.

  At 10:03 the warden gave the signal and the cyanide eggs were lowered into the acid.

  Rudy stopped singing when he heard them sizzle. He yelled, “It’s down!”

  Then Goose Yanez, the mental retard, contributed to science original information on the study of lethal gas when he yelled, “I can smell it! It don’t smell good! It smells like rotten eggs!”

  It had always been believed that the gas was odorless.

  He turned his head to the spectators and said, “I’m going out nice...I’m going out nice...”

  Two newsmen fainted and were carried outside.

  EIGHT

  There are two entrances to the ready room. One connects directly to death row; the other is by way of the preparation room and the witness area, which of course is in full view of the chamber itself. It was this second entrance that Ginny had to use to reach the ready room. One of the administrators wanted to save her the experience of coming face to face with the chamber before the appointed time, so they draped off that area with an old gray curtain.