by Joy Redmond
His hands were sweating and sweat was running in rivulets from his armpits. He had left a balance of a little more fifteen-thousand in the account. He figured he was being generous. That’s enough to buy sweet Liza a lot of fancy meals.
He nervously tapped his foot. He jumped when he heard a female voice, “Mr. Sampson, you’ll have to come inside to collect this amount.”
The cylinder came back down the chute. Lance took out the two checks, rubbed his brow, his mind racing and his heart rapidly beating. “Yeah, okay.” He cleared his throat. “Hey man, drive around to the front entrance,” he said to the cabbie.
“Sho nuff.” The cabbie pulled into a parking space in front of the bank.
Lance lowered his voice. “Look man, I need your help. See, I’m doing my best friend a big favor. He’s real sick, he doesn’t have long to live, and he wanted me to get his money out of the bank for him because he doesn’t trust his family. He gave me his driver’s license and work badge, but he wasn’t counting on me having to go inside.” He cleared his throat, his mind spinning faster.
The cabbie turned and eyed Lance. “Hmm,” he said, and raised his brows.
“I can’t go inside.” He handed the two I.D’s to the cabbie.
“What the shit? They ain’t no way they gonna think you is black or you took a bad picture. And how I know you ain’t trying to rob this po fool. Somethin’ ain’t right here.” He squinted and stared at Lance.
“There is a thousand dollars in it for you.”
“A thousand dollar. Hmm.” He pulled on his chin. “I dunno, man. How you be best friends with this Willy Sampson?”
“I’m not going to sit here and play twenty questions.” Foam formed in the right corner of Lance’s mouth and his eyes blazed. “A thousand-five-hundred and that’s it,” he said, raising his voice. His face flushed and his palms beginning to itch.
“A thousand-five. Hmmm.”
“Either do it or don’t,” Lance yelled, spittle flying, and he reached for the door handle.
“You got a deal. I sho can use the money. Ain’t none of my business. Give me the stuff. Them whities don’t know one black from another; they think we all look alike. He tipped his hat. “Be right back.”
Lance tapped his foot, cracked his knuckles, and sweat poured from his body. “It’s taking that damn fool too long,” he mumbled. Just as he reached for the door handle, he saw the cabbie walking toward the taxi. He stepped onto the pavement, his eyes darting.
“Here ye go,” Cabbie said, extending a large manila envelope.
Lance reached for it.
Cabbie held tightly. “I needs my part first.”
Lance wanted to slug him, but he couldn’t draw attention. He opened the flap that was pointing toward him and easily slipped out hundred dollar bills. He quickly counted out fifteen, then shoved them into Cabbie’s chest. “Here. Ye done good.”
“Thank ye. Ye want I should take you somewhere else.”
“Yeah, take me to the nearest McDonalds’s. I’ll buy your lunch.”
“Sho nuff, man. I loves them McRib sandwiches. I might need me about four of ’em.”
“Eat all you want. I’m going to do the same. I’m tired of eating slop. I’m itching to sink my teeth into a juicy cheeseburger. I hope you don’t have a problem with us eating in the cab.”
“It don’t bother me none. I eat in it all the time.”
Soon they were eating and Lance couldn’t remember when food had tasted so good. “How’s those McRibs?”
“Best shit I ever ate, ‘cept when I throw some real ribs on the pit and use my special barbeque sauce. This stuff just imitation, but I’s hungry and it’ll do till I get home. I gotta work extra today. We gots two cabbies out sick. Thanks fer the meal. You want I should take ye somewheres else?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the nearest Wal-Mart.”
“No problem. And I won’t even turn on the meter. I figure I done made out real goot, today.”
Cabbie pulled up to the front door of Wal-Mart. “Here ya be. Ye have a good day now.”
“Drive around to the back.”
“What’s ye wanna go ‘round back fer?”
“I wanna get rid of all the trash. We’ve got three bags full. I wouldn’t feel right leaving a mess in your cab. Just drive on around!”
“You sho be a strange man, but whatever ya want. We’ll find a dumpster and you can unload anything ye want. You sho is a neat dude.”
Lance scooted to the edge of the seat. Just as Cabbie pulled up close to the dumpster, he grabbed him around the neck. Using four fingers on both hands, he squeezed with all his strength. “Die, you little pipsqueak. I can’t leave any witnesses.”
Cabbie kicked his legs against the steering wheel and clawed Lance’s arms with both hands.
Lance shook and squeezed until felt he Cabbie’s larynx crush. Lance turned loose and Cabbie slumped over the steering wheel. “Thanks for your trouble. Sorry, I had no choice. Rest in peace, little man.”
***
Head nurse, Mean Jean, walked into Lance’s room, determined to force a reaction from him and prove he was faking at being catatonic. She spied Willy lying in the bed. She gasped and held her hand to her mouth, her eyes bugged as she saw the nasty bruises on Willy’s neck. “Willy. Willy,” she yelled, feeling for a pulse.
Willy blinked his eyes. He touched his throat. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out.
“Don’t try to talk, Willy. Your larynx is crushed. I’ll get a doctor. I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Don’t utter a sound,” Mean Jean hurried from the room.
Willy didn’t try to talk but his mind was spinning. I ain’t believin’ what that white bastard done to me. Sweet Liza was right. She say never trust whitie. I hope them po-lice catch that white turd-bird and put him six feet under the jail. I’s sho gonna do my best ta help ’em. That dumb sumbitch!
Chapter Fifty-Four
Lance reached over the front seat and picked up the cash lying beside Cabbie. He stuffed it into the manila envelope and looked around. There was nobody in sight. He quickly got out of the taxi and headed around the building.
When he reached the front entrance he saw a payphone. He went inside and walked up to the service desk. “Could you break a hundred for me? I need about five dollars in change, the rest in five, ten and twenty-dollar bills.”
The clerk handed Lance the change. “Have a nice day,” she said.
He walked back outside, picked up the receiver of the payphone, dropped in a quarter and dialed Joey’s clinic. The phone rang three times. “Come on, Lacy, answer,” he mumbled, as he drummed his finger on the side of the phone.
“Joey’s Animal Care.”
“Joey, it’s me, Lance. Can I please speak with Lacy?” He heard nothing. “Joey, are ya there. It’s me, Lance.”
“I heard ya. Lacy isn’t here. She went back home.”
“Home? Well, I’ll be damned. How are ya doing? I’m finally out of the nut-house and I sure would like to see ya, ole buddy.”
The phone was silent for a few minutes, then Joey answered in a too-friendly tone, “I’d like to see you too. I’ve missed ya, old buddy. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”
Lance dropped the receiver. He lay his head against the phone booth and mumbled, “You sonofabitch! You just verified what I thought. You sicced the FBI on me. Well, I gave them the slip and I’ll stay one step ahead of them until I complete my mission.”
Lance went back inside and bought a pair of dark shades, four pair of jeans, shirts, underwear, socks and a pair of boots and a pair of tennies. He also picked out a black leather jacket, black sock cap and a pair of gloves. Then he went in search of a briefcase. He passed the sporting goods rack and checked it out. Yep, a Swiss Army knife might come in handy. As he headed for the checkout line, he passed the jewelry counter. I think a watch is in order.
He paid for his purchases, breaking a few more hundred dollar bills.
He
took the bags to the restroom and found an empty stall. He quickly undressed and put on a new outfit, carefully ripped off the tags and put on his wristwatch. He opened the briefcase and neatly stacked his money. He exited the stall and stuffed Willy’s white uniform into the trash can. On his way outside, he noticed a clock over the front entrance. He set his new watch.
Once outside, he wondered which way to go. He was on a side of town he wasn’t familiar with. Going on instinct, he started walking east. A few blocks up the street, he saw a large sign for Hertz. He crossed the street and walked inside the small building.
“May I help you?” asked an older lady.
“I’d like to rent a car. Is it okay if I take a look around before I make up my mind?”
“Sure. Pick out what you like and I’ll get you fixed up.”
Twenty minutes later, Lance drove off the lot in a black Chevy Impala. He badly wanted to stop at a liquor store and purchase a bottle of Jack Daniel’s but he decided he needed to get on up the road first. It wasn’t safe to stop in Nashville. Once he headed toward Memphis, he saw a wayside inn. He went in and bought three bottles of Jack. Back in the car, he unscrewed the cap and took a large swig. “Ah, heaven. How I’ve missed you, Jack.” He continued to swig from the bottle, but cautioned himself to take it slow. It was hitting him faster than it used to.
Six hours later, Lance arrived in Yellow Creek. He drove through the seedy part of town and shook his head in disgust. He glanced to his right and saw a run-down motel that had a dozen cabins in a semicircle. He swerved the car into the motel lot.
He walked through the door of a cabin that served as the office. He paused and surveyed the room. He eyed an over-stuffed sofa, splitting at the seams. Two ashtray stands were running over with stinky cigarette butts. The odor of ammonia made his eyes smart. He glanced toward the floor by the rusty, metal desk and spied a mutt curled into a ball, napping. Ammonia dog piss, alright.
He forced himself to move across the muddy tile floor. A fat man with yellow armpit stains on his tattle-tale-gray tee shirt swirled around in a chair that squeaked loud enough to rouse the dog. “Can I help ya?” asked the man, chewing on a cigar stub and showing a set of yellow teeth that didn’t look as if they had ever been introduced to a toothbrush.
“Yeah, I need a cabin,” Lance answered.
“How long ya gonna be stayin’? An hour? Two hours? I rent these cabins fast,” he said, removing the cigar, wiping his mouth on his bare, hairy arm, as he peered out the front window, eyeing the shiny, black Impala. He gave Lance a queer look. “Not many people wearing fancy duds and driving a fancy car spend time in this part of town.”
“So?” Lance answered and waited for another remark. “And I might need the room for three or four days. I’m not sure yet. You got a problem with that?” Lance asked, his eyes cold as steel.
The fat man chuckled, his big belly jiggling. “A few days, huh? You must be a busy man.” He lifted both hands as if Lance had just yelled stick ’em up. “But ain’t none of my business. You can pay by the day. That’ll be twenty-five in cash, for now,” he said, reaching for a key in the top drawer of the rusty desk. “No problem, man.”
Lance threw twenty-five dollars on the desktop, snatched the room key, gave the fat man a sneer and headed outside. He glanced at the number on the key. Cabin one. Maybe Norman Bates will pay a visit. This could be fun.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Lance angled the car in front of cabin 1. He picked up the bags of clothes and his briefcase. Once in the room, he dropped the bags and walked over to the front window. The dry-rotted curtains ripped a bit as he pulled them. He ambled to the bed and felt the lumpy mattress. I should sleep good on this pile of lumpy shit. Ain’t any worse than what I’ve been sleeping on.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist, massaged his brow, and blew his breath, hard, reminding himself to keep his temper under control.
He was hungry but he didn’t want to venture out into the town yet, so he walked back to the vending machine next to the office door. He bought his favorite junk food: potato chips, cheese curls, peanut butter crackers, and chocolate chip cookies. Then he bought three cans of Coke. He felt like a kid as he walked back to his cabin. He sat on the edge of the bed and devoured the food.
After eating, he turned on the T.V. but there was nothing but snow on the screen. It was midnight, but he still had no concept of time. He strolled over to the window and gazed outside. Directly across from his cabin was number 12. Several people were coming and going. Nobody stayed longer than ten to fifteen minutes. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the entrance of the motel and peered up and down the street as far as he could see. No cars. Interesting.
He closed the door and dragged a chair over by the window. As he sipped on the Jack, he watched a steady flow of people come and go, until five o’clock. Then it seemed as if everybody had dropped off the face of the earth. “Well, kiss my snortin’ ass! Right under my nose,” he said. Excitement built up in him like an active volcano ready to blow.
He stepped outside and leaned against the dirty cabin wall. He overheard a conversation when the last two girls left cabin 12, stumbling over their own feet. One girl said to her friend a few feet ahead of her, “Big Al sure give yo money’s worth.”
“Hush yo big mouth. Big Al hears ya, ya won’t be gettin’ nothin’ but a black eye and a sore ass. He’ll kick yo puny ass inta next week.”
Big Al. He conjured an image: Gigantic man, bald head, beard, and tattoos over most of his body. A walking beast. Lance smiled. Big Al was the kind of challenge he enjoyed.
Lance stepped off the sidewalk and into the parking lot. He looked around him. No lights were on in any of the other cabins. Nobody was on the street. No lights were on in Cabin 12. He walked up the cracked sidewalk until he was even with the office and peered through the small window of the door. No lights on. No fat man in sight. No barking dog. Five o’clock was graveyard time in ‘Junkie Town’.
He walked across the parking lot, looking over his shoulder, looking around him, looking up and down the street with each step. Not a creature stirring. Not even a mouse. He pulled out the Army knife and easily slit the bottom of the screen on the window of cabin 12. Two more slices up each side, and the rotten screen fell to the ground.
He pushed the top of the rotted wood frame, and with no resistance, the window began to slide up. Much easier than breaking glass. He could hear Big Al snoring. Lance slung his right leg across the windowsill as if he were straddling a horse. He tucked his head, and leaned his body inward. He barely stretched his right leg downward when he touched the floor.
Big Al continued to snore.
Lance crept across the floor and it squeaked a bit. He paused, ready to pounce. Big Al didn’t stir.
Lance jumped on top of Big Al, getting the surprise of his life. Big Al was so short and skinny, he wondered if he was straddling a woman. He wrapped his powerful hands around the skinny neck and pushed with both thumbs on his Adam’s Apple.
Big Al’s eyes popped open and his body bucked as he tried to loosen Lance’s hands, but he didn’t have the strength to fight. He gasped, then his eyes turned upward and closed again.
Lance released his grip. “Damn, you could have put up a better fight. You took all the fun out of it, you stupid wetback.” He jumped to the floor, flipped up the edge of the bedspread, which was half off the bed and draping to the floor. He spied a large, metal strongbox and dragged it out. Locked. He spied Big Al’s jeans at the foot of the bed. He quickly ran his hand into the pockets, and his pounding head began to abate as he withdrew a key. His hands trembled as he sat on the floor and unlocked the metal box.
He scooped out money, letting it filter through his fingers, dropping into his lap and falling onto the floor like giant, green snowflakes. “Thousands,” he said, and wanted to yell as if he were an Indian who had scored his first scalp. He re-scooped, carefully placing the money back into the strongbox and locked it. He slipped t
he key into his jeans pocket.
His heart was racing as he ransacked the room, opening every drawer and closet. Nothing but old clothes and junk. He opened the bedside table drawer. “Come to Daddy,” he softly cooed, lifting a black book. Dealers Bible! He gently stroked it as if he had found a lost, frightened kitten. He tucked the ‘bible’ into his belt.
Lance could barely make his way past all the boxes in order to get into the bathroom. His adrenaline rush was going full speed as he rummaged through the many boxes. The mother lode! Hot damn. It’s Christmas time alright!
He opened the medicine cabinet over the grimy sink and retrieved paraphernalia for melting, mixing and shooting. He had an overwhelming urge to mix and treat himself to a speedball cocktail. Use your head. Hang on just a little longer. Don’t blow it now.
He cracked open the front door and looked in every direction. Nobody in sight. He pulled the door closed, then stepped lively across the pavement and hurried inside his own cabin. He grabbed his new clothing, his briefcase and the car keys, then hurried for the car and threw his belongings into the back seat.
He backed across the pavement and pulled the car as close to the door of cabin 12 as he could. He glanced around one more time. No cars in front of the other cabins. No lights on in any of them. He popped the trunk button, kept the motor running, and hurried back inside cabin 12.
Ten minutes later he had his trunk loaded with boxes, the contents worth more than their weight in gold. He slid under the wheel, pulled off his sock cap, looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, wet his palms with his tongue, and slicked the sides of his hair, which had grown out in the past two months after Willy agreed not to shave it anymore.