Memphis Luck

by Gerald Duff

  “Son, son,” the Range Foreman was saying. “All you’re going to do is get us both killed. Lay down that gun and beg these fellows to let us live. Use your goddamn head, boy. Quit that jabbering to yourself, please, son, and listen to me.”

  I’m not going to answer him when he talks like that, Randall Eugene thought. If I don’t make any sign I’m recognizing what kind of a fool he’s making of himself, he won’t have to try to explain it to me and Ricky later and we won’t have to say anything back to the Range Foreman. Ricky won’t listen to him anyway. He’ll just turn away and look way off across the prairie toward where the mountains begin. Sangre de Christo, that’s what they’re called, those mountains. That means blood of Christ.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  J.W., Tyrone, and Colorado

  The good-looking Hispanic woman taped to the kitchen chair had started to cry as soon as J.W. Ragsdale broke out the small window next to the door lock and stuck his hand through to turn the deadbolt. She turned her eyes on him, beginning to roll them around as though trying to tell him something, stretching her jaw beneath the duct tape across her mouth as though she was trying to warn him about whatever it was that was causing her to toss her head around and jerk it to the right in a gesture directing attention over her shoulder. Shit, J.W. thought, you trying way too hard, child.

  When he reached her and began to pull the tape away from her mouth, the woman dropped her chin toward her chest, groaning as though the removal of the silver tape across her lips was costing her dearly.

  “I can breathe now,” she said, closing her eyes into a tight grimace as she sobbed out the words. “I thought I was going to choke to death.”

  “Couldn’t draw in no air, huh?” J.W. said. “I guess you’re a mouth breather, like I am half the time. It helps if you throw your head back. That way you get yourself a clear passage through all your pipes. Where is everybody? Where’s the plumber?”

  “The plumber?” the woman said, relaxing her face and opening her eyes, as dry as he figured they’d be despite all her groaning, J.W. noted. “Who?”

  “The one that taped you to your chair,” J.W. said. “He didn’t know what he was doing, did he? Looks like he forgot to snug things up nice and tight here.”

  “It wasn’t no plumber,” the woman said. “It was some men I never seen before, sir. I don’t know nothing about them.”

  “Are they all in the house still? How many of them’s here?”

  “I don’t know. Four, maybe. They must be upstairs where Mr. Jimbo works, him and the boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “El muchacho negro,” the woman said. “I don’t know his name. Mr. Jimbo didn’t tell me. I been cooking lunch for him and the boy. That’s what I was doing when the men come in here and abused me like you see here.”

  “Don’t start up that crying again,” J.W. said. “I ain’t got time for you to get it going right. A black boy, you say. How old is he?”

  “I don’t know. He was wearing a cowboy sombrero too big for him. He’s new to here. He’s pretty little, but he looks grown. That’s all I noticed.”

  “I got to go let a man in the house,” J.W. said. “You can get up if you want to, but after you do, I think you ought to go on outside and sit in the shade. It’s hot out there.”

  “You not going to take off these tapes?” the woman said, lifting her hands up and letting her head fall back toward the chair, her eyes closing. Damn, that is a nice curve her throat makes when she does that, J.W. thought. Looks like a picture you’d see hanging up in the Brooks Museum of a Mexican beauty about to do some business with her boyfriend. Her amigo.

  “I ain’t got time to play out this scene just the way you want it done, senorita,” J.W. said. “I couldn’t do it any real justice. I ain’t got the right dramatic training for it. You going to have to do what you think you have to do to close it out on your own. Just don’t make any noise doing it, and everything’ll be jake.”

  Tyrone had stopped hammering on the door before J.W. got to it to let him in, but that was no real advantage, J.W. considered. It would probably work better if he’d kept on doing it. That way the four or six or two or whatever number of people it was upstairs would think nobody had gained entrance yet, and they might not be moving around much.

  Passing through a hall off the kitchen, J.W. could see the foot of a wide set of stairs and a landing halfway up. Being where he was at the bottom of the stairs was like sitting in the stands at a baseball game on the third base side. Everything is going to be coming toward you, he considered, from first and second base and down those stairs. You just had to wait for the first hard hit ball to get through the infield by the shortstop, and then all hell would start breaking loose.

  “Tyrone,” J.W. said, opening the front door to Jimbo Reynolds’s house and finding his partner standing to the side with his Glock 9 out and ready, “I believe we may have a situation here at the ranch. Better call for them to send some back-up.”

  “How quick is stuff going to happen?” Tyrone said, then both of them hearing the deep cough of a .45 come from upstairs. “Oh, that quick, huh?”

  “Shit,” J.W. said. “We probably going to have to do all this by ourselves. They ain’t going to get here fast enough to pitch in and help.”

  “The cavalry always shows up at the ranch in time, partner,” Tyrone said, thumbing his cell phone. “You seen enough John Wayne flicks to know that.”

  “I always go to sleep before they get there, though,” J.W. said. “Every fucking time.”

  “That was a heavy round,” Tyrone said, the last word he said immediately followed by the sound of another shot from upstairs.

  “So was that one,” J.W. said. “It sure ain’t no .22.”

  “They got to come downstairs,” Tyrone said, looking about him at the configuration of the entrance hall, “unless they decide to jump out a window.”

  “They’ll be coming sooner rather than later, what’s left of them, don’t you reckon? Who’s popping a cap on who’s is what’s going to decide it.”

  “There is a disagreement going on, all right, among some parties,” Tyrone said. “What did that good-looking woman in the kitchen tell you?”

  “She didn’t tell me shit, Tyrone. She’s in on it somehow. Sitting there with tape no tighter on her than I wear my house shoes. Said there there was four men up there that did her so nasty and taped her all up like that. I reckon they’re here to make the preacher and our Bones claimer cough up the church proceeds or the deed to the ranch or the horses and cattle or something.”

  “She said the kid was here?”

  “Yeah, she did. Dressed up like a cowboy, big hat and everything, she said. Chaps, boots, you name it.”

  “And she’s part of it, you’re saying, this ranch invasion.”

  “I wouldn’t believe a word said by anybody tied up loose the way she was,” J.W. said. “She let them in, the way I figure it, but butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth how she’s telling it.”

  “Quit talking about her mouth, J.W.,” Tyrone said as he moved from one side to the other of the bottom of the staircase, looking up at the landing that led to where the gunshots had come from. “I’m trying to work here.”

  “You suppose they finished doing whoever they’re doing?”

  “If they have, they’ll be coming down here directly,” Tyrone said. “From what you say about what the Mexican lady told you, these boys will know their window of opportunity is closing fast. They ain’t going to wait around to see who else shows up at their party before they leave. They’ll be coming.”

  J.W. and Tyrone looked at each other. From the kitchen they could hear the sound of the door to the outside closing as the woman left the house. J.W. spoke first. “I’m going to do it,” he said. “You get to be hindcatcher this time.”

  “You sure your knees’ll still let you climb stairs, J.W.?” Tyrone said. “Old as they are?”

  “I ain’t seen no elevator to the top, much as I’d prefer
a ride,” J.W. said. “I’ll see what I can sneak up on.”

  “Keep your head down, Old Folks.”

  “Yessir, Boss,” J.W. said and headed for the stairs.

  ***

  Fulgencia had just started for the street, walking beside the driveway behind the row of ornamentals and thinking she should stay on the cement but she couldn’t seem to make her feet go that direction – they would not do it - when she saw the gray-green VW Phaeton pull over and stop. Then when that happened, her feet suddenly let her change the way she was going, her sandals making a slapping sound as she ran down the driveway.

  “What’s going on?” Don Condon said, standing outside the car now, still between the opened door and the Phaeton itself. “You’re not inside the house like we said.”

  “No, I’m not inside. They’re killing people upstairs. And the cops have already got here, two of them.”

  “Killing people? How do you know? Are they doing Reynolds?

  “I don’t know who they’re doing, but I heard the shots. Open this goddamn door.”

  “Did you get the money?” Condon said, hitting a switch which let Fulgencia open the door and climb into the car. “Did you get any of it?”

  “No, I didn’t get the fucking money. I got what you see. Let’s go.”

  “You didn’t get the money, that’s what you’re saying. That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “It went all wrong, chinga,” Fulgencia said. “It all went wrong. It was that damn kid, I just know it.”

  “Randall Eugene?”

  “El muchacho negro,” Fulgencia said, leaning forward in her seat as though she intended to crawl up on the dashboard and was trying to figure out a way how to begin doing it. “I knew he was bad medicine as soon as I saw him. Muy malo, the little bastard.”

  “Does Jimbo know what’s going on?” Don Condon said, putting the Phaeton into gear and beginning to move toward the end of the circle on which the headquarters of the Big Corral was located. “What’re we going to do?”

  “I don’t know what the preacher knows. He may be dead by now. But I know one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’re taking me to Little Rock today. Now .”

  “Why?” Don Condon said.

  “So I can get public transportation out of this fucking country, and I can’t do it in Memphis without them knowing it. That‘s why.”

  “Oh, Sugar, no,” Don Condon said, looking at Fulgencia. “No.”

  “Sugar, my ass,” Fulgencia said.” Move this fucker.”

  ***

  In his Moroccan leather chair in the anteroom to the counting chamber, Jimbo Reynolds was imagining himself suddenly able by an act of will to shrink his body into an exact copy of itself, reduced in scale by at least ten to one. That way his wrist would instantly slip out of the cuffs which held him, and he could then force himself to crawl back into the shelter of the chair arm and be out of sight.

  No. That wasn’t good enough. Let’s say twenty to one, that would be twice as good, twice as small, little enough that Jimbo could actually crawl into the space between the seat cushion and the back of the chair, slide down into the crack and be completely hidden from view.

  That way, the redneck misfits in the counting room and the Indian chief who ran them would forget all about him and focus on the crazy colored kid and the hole he’d put in the chest of the one leaning up against the door facing. Jimbo could see that he was still leaking, that faraway and long-ago look on his face they always get when it happens, but the pumping action had stopped, so that meant he was likely meeting his maker on the other side, even as we speak. If I was front of a congregation, Jimbo thought, I could be talking about the divine act of judgment working right now at the Gates of Paradise, as the angelic guards listen to him whine and beg before they get ready to kick his redneck ass to where he belongs in Hell.

  But, shit, I’m not, and that crazy kid is rolling his eyes and jabbering nonsense into the air about Colorado and somebody named Ricky, and that Indian-looking bastard is about to come out of that door blazing away at everybody he sees. Oh, Lord, bless my tongue with eloquence now in the hour of Thy servant’s need, and let the arrows of Thy enemy fall harmless against the breastplates of Thy righteousness.

  And, oh, Jesus, Gentle Savior, make me real little and hard to hit.

  “Son,” Jimbo Reynolds said to the colored punk with the .45 automatic hanging from his right hand, “put down your weapon, and tell these folks you’re ready to call it quits. Let them know you’re sorry for what you’ve done to their departed comrade and that you’ll stop shooting at them. Please, son. Think of your sweet mother. You’re breaking her heart, son.”

  Jimbo stopped to think of what else he might say to influence the maniac before him, listening at the same time for any sounds coming from the scum in the counting room and pulling at the cuff fastening him to the chair arm. Goddamn a chair made so sturdy you couldn’t break the arm loose from the back of it. What had the bastards made it of? Stainless steel?

  “Range Foreman,” the kid said, smiling as he spoke. Smiling, goddamn it to Hell. Smiling. “Me and Colorado believe you might be onto something there. I told him when the real nut-cutting started that you’d cowboy up.”

  “Cowboy up?” Jimbo said, feeling something beginning to happen at the back of his throat, something fighting to break loose from deep inside his chest and belly, something connected with a whole shitload of trail songs and western clothes and boots and word pictures of sunsets and herds of cattle grazing on purple hills. “What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy little shit? You’re going to get me killed here in a minute.”

  “Range Foreman,” the kid said, that smile stuck on his face like a tattoo, “let’s get this chore done for the Boss. Listen now to what Colorado’s saying.”

  “Lord,” Jimbo said, giving up all notions of persuading the punk-ass little fucker to let the rednecks come out of the counting room and kill him and leave Jimbo alone, “I know I’ve fallen short. I have sinned against the light. But give me one more chance. I’ll work with the homeless. I’ll comfort the sick. I’ll get politically involved on the grassroots level. You name it, Jesus, Sweet Infant Child of God, and I’ll do it, I swear I will. I shit you not, Lord.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Colorado,” the kid said, looking behind him into an empty corner of the anteroom. “See, I told you. He’s fixing to cowboy up.”

  “What’re you looking at?” Jimbo said, leaning forward to see where the crazed punk kid was focused, his voice crawling higher in his throat. “There’s not anybody there. There ain’t nobody in this room but you and me and the man you killed.”

  “Oh, sure, there is, Range Foreman,” the kid said. “Ricky is here, and Jesus is here, and the Boss is always here. All we got to do is tend to our chores with everybody pitching in, and things’ll turn out fine. Cowboy up, Range Foreman.”

  “Don’t leave me out of the picture, Randall Eugene,” someone said. “I’m right here with you, too.”

  The first question coming to Jimbo’s mind was whether this new one was a look-out who had been staying downstairs and was now showing up because he has heard the shooting. All he could see of the man was his head as he looked around the half-wall separating the anteroom from the hall. That and the weapon he held in his right hand pointed toward the floor, some kind of automatic it appeared to be, like the one the crazy colored kid had killed the first redneck with. He wasn’t dressed as well as the rest of the bunch was, and he seemed a lot less in a hurry than they were, except for the Indian misfit in charge. What this new one had just said had been delivered in a low voice, flat and uninterested in the words he was speaking. He sounded bored to Jimbo, in fact.

  Oh, Jesus, this one is the stone killer of the bunch. He would drop a man without even getting his pulse rate up. Look at his fucking eyes. Pale and washed-out and not an ounce of compassion or humanity in them. Sweet Infant Child of God, hold my hand in Thine.
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  “Sir,” Jimbo said, “I had nothing to do with the slaughter of this poor fellow beside me. I witnessed what happened to him, and I have been praying every second as a minister of the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ for the eternal salvation of his soul. That little murdering bastard there in the cowboy duds shot him down just as cold-blooded as an Arab terrorist.”

  “Yeah,” the pale-eyed man standing halfway behind the wall said. “Didn’t take Randall Eugene but the one shot, neither, did it? He bored that fucker right through the pump. But cut the shit, preacher, and tell me something.”

  “What?” Jimbo said, thinking shit it’s going to be worse than I thought. You believe you’ve imagined the worst that can happen, and then you find out that cancer ain’t a consideration for what’s turning up next. “What?”

  “That door there to that room. What’s it made out of?”

  “Steel, tempered steel,” Jimbo said. “That’s my safe room. Nothing can get in there.”

  “That means no other way out, then, I reckon,” J.W. Ragsdale said. “They’ll be coming out of there in a minute or two. What do you think, Randall Eugene? We going to be able to reason with them or are they ready to sell all the way out?”

  “My name is Colorado,” Randall Eugene said and then moved his head in a gesture directed behind him. “My partner over yonder is Ricky Nelson.”

  “That right?” J. W. said. “The traveling man himself, huh? I ain’t seen Ricky since he was in Tom Lea Park must’ve been twenty years ago. He was wearing a pink sportcoat, hot as it was that day. He was looking good.”

  “He’s in the clothes he wore in “Rio Bravo” today,” Randall Eugene said. “Have you seen that one?”

  “Not in a long time. John Wayne and Walter Brennan in it with Ricky?”

  “That’s the one,” Randall Eugene said, then turning to look behind it. “He remembers you in that one, Ricky.”

  “He had a shotgun,” J.W. said, “laying across his lap there in the jailhouse.”