by Adam Bender
Klein wrapped one of his mitts around the arm of the squirming teen. Jack jumped to his feet and strode forcefully to the scene.
“What’s going on here?” the attorney asked forcefully.
Klein regarded Jack like sour milk. “Get out of here. ’Tain’t your concern.”
“You gotta help me, mister!” yelled the teen. “These guys are trying to kidnap me!”
The defense attorney tried playing the high school connection. “Larry, c’mon. You know me. What’s up?”
“Hey, Jack. S’all good, man! We’re just making a citizen’s arrest. You know?”
Jack laughed in disbelief. “A what?”
Klein looked annoyed. “You heard. A citizen’s arrest.”
“For what offense?”
“Now, now, easy there, Jack. We’re just taking him in for questioning. We don’t recognize this one from Liberty, so we’re just gonna make sure he’s all right, you know?”
“I am from Liberty!” the kid squealed. “And I got rights!”
“You do indeed,” said Jack, placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “What’s your name, son?”
The boy looked at him skeptically, but relaxed in Jack’s steady gaze. “It’s Bert.”
Jack turned to the other men. “I suggest the two of you leave Bert alone.”
“We’re taking him with us,” insisted Wilkins. “We’re under orders.”
“Orders from who?”
“Sheriff Martin.”
Jack laughed. “So he’s got his militia going, has he?”
Wilkins grinned. “Martin’s Militia! You should join up, Jack. We could use a man who understands the law.”
Klein pulled a Breck 17, aiming it at the kid’s temple. Bert whimpered, “Oh God, what are you doing, man?”
Responding to Wilkins, Jack said, “Yeah, it’s pretty clear you could use someone like that.”
Hoping to surprise Klein, Jack snapped a hand out to take the gun. But the ex-policeman whisked it away just in time. The miss set Jack off-balance, and he couldn’t defend himself when Wilkins gave a hard shove against his stomach. The hit knocked the breath out of Jack, laying him flat on his back in the grass. Through strained breaths, he watched the two militia men take the kid by the arms and carry him off to a Jeep.
“Stop!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet.
It was too late. Wilkins revved the engine, and the Jeep roared down Main Street.
Panting, Jack dusted off the back of his jeans and sat down on the recently vacated bench. He shook his head with disappointment. Ben Martin had actually managed to collect some followers for his militia. They’d arrested a boy for looking suspicious. What would they do to him? And who would they go after next? He couldn’t go after them alone. He’d need a strong ally to help rally the rest of the town to his side.
Jack took out his cellphone and dialed Father James.
*
When the tap at the door evolved into pounding, Ben Martin put down his Bud and yelled, “Dougie! Would ya get that, please?”
It seemed to take a lot of effort for the deputy to rise up off his ass. Dougie took a long swig of beer before stumbling out of the sheriff’s office. Not long after, Ben heard a shout of protest and the slap of dress shoes against tile.
“Ben Martin!” cried a familiarly annoying voice.
“Why don’t you come into my office?” the sheriff called out the door. Then in came Jackson Veras and Father James. The former looked angry while the latter just looked plain flustered.
“Next time, call first,” said Martin.
“The boy, Bert,” stated Jackson, slamming his palms against the desk. “What have you done with him?”
Martin put his legs up on his desk and leaned back in the chair with the Bud. “Cool it, Jack. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Dougie appeared in the doorway, panting like a scrawny greyhound after the race. “Sorry, Ben, they barged right in.”
“It’s okay. These boys just came to talk.” The sheriff looked at the priest. “Ain’t that right, Father?”
“That’s right,” Father James replied. “Sheriff, this militia you’re trying to form is getting out of hand.”
Martin slapped the Bud on the table and some of the beer fizzed out the top. “My militia is the only thing keeping Liberty safe! I explained this last week in your church, if you recall, and you had no objections then.”
Jackson laughed curtly. “How does arresting innocent kids in the park keep anyone safe?”
“My men just brought in young Bert for questioning. You never can be too careful, you know. You are correct that he’s innocent. We did a record check and discovered he belonged to a family in the suburbs. We let him go about an hour ago. He’s probably home by now. You can check if you want.”
Jackson took a step back, looking a bit unsure of himself. “You let him go?”
Martin brought his legs down from the desk and held out his hands in an exaggerated gesture, as if he was addressing an idiot. “Well, it wouldn’t do any good keeping him here, would it? Seemed like the responsible thing to do.”
Regaining his composure, Jackson growled, “The responsible thing would have been not to arrest him in the first place.”
Father James nodded. “Yes, Sheriff. You must learn to trust in your fellow man.”
That steamed Martin real good. “On the contrary, Father, I can list several passages in the Bible that says I shouldn’t. Psalm 118, verse 8. ‘It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man.’”
The young priest turned red. “I … I …”
“Jeremiah 17, verses 5 through 6. ‘Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord. For he shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh; but shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land and not inhabited.’”
Ben Martin shook his head, completely disgusted with the minister. They should never have given the church to Father James. He was completely incompetent. “Shall I go on, Father? No? Then get the fuck out of my office and don’t come back.” He slapped his hand down on the desk. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”
He nodded at Dougie, and the deputy brought a Breck 17 to the back of Jackson’s skull.
The defense attorney turned slowly and held up his hands. “What do you think you’re doing, Ben?”
“It’s not worth it, Jack,” said Father James. “C’mon, we better go.”
The triumphant sheriff returned to his beer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We Need to Talk.
No one cared for the interstate, and the highway didn’t care much for riders. The Wanderer could barely make out the painted traffic lines, which had faded almost completely into the dusty black pavement. He thanked God the stolen pickup truck had semi-decent suspension, a critical feature for absorbing the bumps from cracks, potholes, and debris. He was also lucky that the road was straight, at least for the most part, and there wasn’t much traffic. He still felt the tension in his shoulders, but it seemed to have eased slightly. What stress remained had more to do with where he was going than his mode of transportation.
The greenery outside the truck vanished, replaced suddenly by dead crimson. The familiar sight of open desert brought a slight smile to the Wanderer’s face, but the good feeling dissipated when he heard the grunt of a mechanical wild boar. In the rearview mirror, he counted two motorcycles behind him — not the Red Stripers he was looking for, but Red Stripers all the same. The Wanderer glanced at the Lassiter on the passenger seat, but resisted the urge to grab the ebony-handled revolver. Chances were, the gangsters didn’t know who he was or where he was going. It probably wouldn’t do Rosie or the Kid much good to make trouble with the Gang before he even reached Union.
As the first bike screamed by, a pale leg caught the Wanderer’s eyes. He followed the limb all the way up to a tight pair of black shorts. The woman was riding on the back
of the hog with her skinny arms squeezed tight around the fat, leathery waist of a man in a beater. Neither of them wore helmets, but the female rider had a Pilgrim strapped to her bare back. Errol could just make out the red outline of a sunburn emanating from around the shotgun before the bike shot off over the horizon. Well, he guessed that was one way to get those red stripes.
A second motorcycle roared up, and, for a long while, the Red Striper rode closely on the Wanderer’s tail. At last, the bike broke to the left and pulled alongside the driver-side window. The gangster stared daggers, and Errol wanted badly to swerve left and blast the asshole into the desert. Something splashed against the glass — a glob of spit, tinged brown with chewing tobacco. The Wanderer ignored the high-pitched laughter of the gangster and just waited patiently until the biker zoomed off after his buddies.
It might’ve been a different story if the window was open and the spit had come through. He reckoned that gangster owed his life to air conditioning.
*
A dusty blue sign welcomed the Wanderer to Union. In fact, someone had spray-painted a crude red-and-white striped flag over Welcome, but the gunman could still make out the word easily enough. He was still on a desolate part of Central Avenue, but on the horizon, he could see a cluster of shops comprising downtown. It didn’t look like a far walk, so rather than continuing on wheels, he pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a diner.
It was weirdly quiet when he got out of the truck. Union was like a ghost town. He checked for the diner’s hours and found a broken window instead. Through shattered glass, he saw a dark, dusty room with silverware and soda-fountain cups scattered across the floor. A spray of bullet holes on the wall behind the counter implied the story of the restaurant’s closing. Something crashed, jerking the Wanderer’s head toward the kitchen. All he caught was a streak of gray, but he reckoned a family of raccoons had made a den of the place.
He went back to the truck and took a red handkerchief from his bag, wrapping the bandanna around his head in the fashion of the Red Stripe Gang. Next, he strapped on his gun belt, checking that his Lassiter was loaded. Leaving his bag in the truck, the Wanderer crossed to the left side of the road and stalked into town. There wasn’t a sidewalk, but that was okay since there wasn’t any traffic. He passed several lifeless homes, though he thought he saw a curtain move in one, but he wasn’t quick enough to confirm. Farther down the street, he found a pile of burned rubble where he presumed a house had stood. The houses to the left and right looked fine — maybe a little smoky on the sides facing the scrap heap — but he could see that the fire had been contained to the one property. Controlled and likely deliberate. He wondered what the Gang did to the people inside. And what would they do to his friends? Cursing himself, he pressed on, walking harder than before.
A loud clamor and the sour smell of beer lured him to a saloon called Smoky Joe’s. The Wanderer adjusted his red bandana before pushing through the swinging doors. There were a ton of drinkers inside, considering it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. He saw a lot of Breck 17 pistols, mostly in belt holsters, though one man had set his gun to rest right next to his beer.
A poker game in one corner of the room caught his attention because of how unnaturally quiet the players were. A Red Striper with an eye patch held most of the chips, and the rest of the party looked as solemn as if they were at an execution.
“New in town?” a gruff voice called from the bar. Brown sun spots stained the gangster’s pink scalp, but he made up for the baldness with a bushy gray beard.
The Wanderer stepped over to reply. “Yeah, I came down from the north.”
“Where about?”
After a small pause, he lied, “Montana.”
The old gangster hooted. “Montana! Then you came a long way. The name’s Erskine. Let me get you something to drink.” He plucked a pint glass from a wooden rack hanging overhead, and leaned over the bar to fill it with beer. After a few seconds of overflow, he pushed the foaming lager into Errol’s hand. The glass was warm and wet, and the Wanderer eyed the drink suspiciously.
“Cheers,” said Erskine as they clinked glasses. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
Erskine howled with laughter. “Then Montana it is.”
The Wanderer took one sip of the beer and nearly choked on it. Noticing his discomfort, Erskine howled with laughter. “The refrigeration’s not working! You’ll get used to it.”
“Heh.”
“So, you come down to get yourself a weapon, Montana?”
“How do you mean?”
Erskine’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Don’t you know? Got a big truck coming in tomorrow from Breck Ammo. I figured that’s why you were here.”
So Gerard had made another deal with the Red Stripe Gang. Concealing his outrage as best he could, the Wanderer replied, “Nah, just passing through.”
“Well, a lot of our friends showed up in Union today, and there should be plenty more mañana. Stick around, and I reckon you’ll score yourself a Yossarian, though you better watch your back if there ain’t enough for everyone.”
Errol rested the beer on the bar and wiped his mouth. “Is that so? We must be paying Breck a fortune.”
The old gangster laughed. “Doubt it. Gerard Breck wants to keep us happy.”
So that was it. Gerard’s relationship with the Gang wasn’t a one-off. His stupid brother was actually trading weapons to the Gang for their cooperation. Didn’t he see? If the Red Stripers got enough guns, soon they’d be more than a gang — they’d be an army.
The Wanderer forced more of the beer down his throat. He was too thirsty not to try.
“Hey, Montana,” said a man behind him, with audible amusement.
The Wanderer nearly blew his own cover when he saw who it was.
“Come on outside a minute?” said Kid Hunter with a wink. “We need to talk.”
*
The Wanderer chuckled at a poster of a Muppet urging quiet.
“The Gang ain’t much for reading,” he observed. Besides the Kid and himself, there wasn’t a soul in the entire two-floor library. There probably hadn’t been since the day the Red Stripe Gang made Union its own.
“Lucky for us,” replied Charlie, sitting at a round wooden table meant for study groups.
The Wanderer reached into his pocket for the Kid’s wristband and dropped it under his partner’s nose. Charlie’s eyes lit up in ecstasy. He snatched up the device from the desk as if it were a hot dinner.
“I reckon you’re happier to see that thing than you are to see me,” said Errol, easing into a wooden chair across from him.
The Kid kept his eyes on the device and shrugged.
Errol exhaled sadly. “Is Rosie okay? Did she make it out, too?”
“Naw, man. They got her in the bank vault downtown.”
The Wanderer asked the Kid to start from the beginning. Charlie described how a bunch of gangsters had showed up at the Founders Spring cemetery and knocked them out. When he awoke, he and Rosa were roped to motorcycles headed for Union. After arriving in town, the Gang locked them up in the vault at Second Union Bank.
“They said they was gonna keep us overnight,” said Charlie. “From what I could make out, Gerard Breck’s coming tomorrow —”
“For the gun trade.”
“Oh, so you heard about that, too. Yeah, for the gun trade … and to collect Rosa.”
“Have they hurt her?” asked Errol, gritting his teeth. The thought of Rosie abused was too much to bear, and all because of his stupidity.
“Not more than your average prisoner, I guess. She seemed all right before I left, but it’s been a few hours. My bet is that they’re saving her for the boss man.”
“So how’d you get loose?”
Kid Hunter took a contemplative breath. “Well, we were in there together an hour, maybe two, and then the door opened and Mr. Mask came in to pull me out.”
“Mr. Mask?” repeated the Wanderer,
narrowing his eyes.
“That’s just what I call him. I don’t know his real name. He wears a red bandanna over his mouth and a white one over the top of his head. Oh, and black cotton from the neck down. Looks like some kind of fucked-up ninja.”
The description was familiar. Charlie read the recognition on his face and asked, “You ever seen him before?”
The Wanderer grinned. “I reckon I’m the reason he looks that way. That is … me, a match, and a can of gasoline.”
The Kid exclaimed, “That’s fucked-up! Bet he deserved it, though.”
The Wanderer raised his eyebrows. “That dog liked to start fires. I showed him reason not to. Didn’t mean for him to live, but he was made of stronger stuff than I expected. He wrapped himself up like a regular mummy and slipped away. I sure as hell didn’t think we’d cross paths again.”
The Kid beamed.
“What?” the Wanderer asked.
“It’s just … God damn, Wanderer, you are one sick motherfucker!”
Errol wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but decided the Kid sounded more impressed than disgusted. “Enough about that. You still haven’t told me why Mr. Mask let you go.”
“Right.” said Charlie with a sigh. “Well, the truth is, my old boss, El Tiburón, paid for my release. I guess Breck only wants Rosa anyway. But now El Tiburón wants me to come see him in Vegas. He thinks I owe him a favor, so now I’m in even deeper shit there. But, man, I didn’t want to leave Rosa behind! So I figured I’d linger around here and try to come up with a plan to save her like the regular Prince Charming that I am. Then I ran into you!”
Charlie’s excited expression took a sudden turn to the gloomy. “Where’ve you been, man? Thought you’d abandoned us.”
Errol thought about all the things he wanted to tell Charlie — all the apologies — but in the end, all he could say was, “I know.” He stood up and paced toward the window. Looking out at the ghost town, he added, “But I’m back now. And I reckon I’ve got a plan.”