by Jim Nisbet
Nice business, Royce thought. He sipped his pint, and idly speculated on just what kind of ostentation it would take to get a little attention in this neighborhood.
After awhile Colleen stirred and opened her eyes halfway.
“Where are we?”
“I was going to ask you that.”
She laughed a breathy, quiet laugh. “Oh man,” she said, “I’m so susceptible.” She smacked her lips slowly. Once, twice.
Royce leered at her. “So now what?”
“Home,” she said. “But first, let’s make a little stop.”
“Colleen,” he sighed. “It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
“Just a short one,” she said. “How’s the booze?’
He held up the half-empty bottle. “Not Ezra, not bad. Want some?”
She shook her head, “I’m straight,” and gave him directions.
He looked at his side mirror. “I always liked that term, “straight,” for being high,” he said as he pulled away from the curb.
She shrugged. “It’s an upside-down world.”
The next stop was only two blocks away.
“Wait here,” she said when they’d parked.
They were in a very run-down neighborhood. Across the street was a storefront with radios and televisions in windows to each side of the door. In each window, one television was turned on and tuned to the same channel as the other. Expanded metal screen was nailed over both windows and the door.
When she returned she was lugging a small color television. She put it in the truck bed and got up front with Royce.
She had to wake him up. “You’ve been gone a half-hour,” he said grumpily.
“Here’s your money,” she said, and thrust a handful of bills into his hand.
He looked at it stupidly.
“It’s almost all there,” she said defensively. “I had to pay for the pint.”
“I, I…”
“I saved a little downtown for just the two of us, too.” She smiled shyly. “We can chase it.”
“Downtown?”
“Junk.”
“Junk?”
“Yeah, heroin.”
“Golly.”
Royce looked dumbly at the pint between his legs, nearly empty now. Then he looked through the back window at the television.
“It’s a Sony Trinitron,” she said dully. “Better than the one we had.” She looked at him. Her green eyes could not have been greener because their pupils could not have been smaller. Royce wondered if she knew who he was.
“We?” he asked archly.
“Yeah,” she leered cutely. “We.”
Royce shook his head.
He liked the sound of it. She was a junkie. He knew that. She’d probably just sold herself to one guy for the fix and to another guy for the television. There must have been some kind of snag about the whiskey and cigarettes, or she’d have worked out an arrangement over that, too.
Yet she’d said “We.”
He liked the sound of it.
Need another bottle, he said to himself.
They finally made it home at a quarter after five.
She had him plug in the television. Then she made him salvage the mangled rabbit ears from the alley below the back stairs, where Eddie had flung them with the old television, and hook them up to the new one. Then she made him turn it on.
It was all on the early-bird news, right after the farm report still incongruously broadcast to the city of Dallas.
“Robbery and murder in exclusive University Park,” the lead-in said, “right after this.” Royce had almost fallen asleep in his chair with a fresh fifth of whisky in his lap. But he stiffened when he heard the announcer’s voice and steeled himself to listen through the commercial, his eyes closed. The music and voices seemed obnoxiously loud and meaningless. The two and a half minutes of advertising between the lead-in and the story seemed endless. Finally the newscaster reappeared. Royce opened his eyes. The story logo appeared on the wall behind a well-groomed man seated in the television studio. It was the same guy he’d watched the other night in the bar, or could have been.
“Responding to reports of gunfire in the exclusive University Park district around midnight tonight, police discovered the body of Mrs. Tyler Greyson in the bedroom of her family home.”
Overexposed footage from a hand-held camera appeared on the wall behind the newscaster, then filled the screen. The tape was a melange of whirling lights, police cars, faces, uniforms, and hands held up against the bright lights behind the camera. In the background appeared the mansion Royce had seen in University Park, and the row of willow trees leading up to it.
“Oh shit, Eddie, oh dear,” Colleen said.
“A police spokeswoman said that Mrs. Greyson evidently had surprised an intruder in her home at around ten minutes to midnight, and shots were exchanged. A neighbor had this to say.”
The footage cut to the brightly illuminated face of a man in a checked western shirt and dark glasses. He explained how he and his wife had heard the distinctive roar of Mrs. Greyson’s .44, followed by the subsequent pops of a smaller caliber gun.
“Police arriving upon the scene within five minutes of the call received no response at Mrs. Greyson’s front door. The garage door, however, was standing open, and Mrs. Greyson’s car was missing. Upon further investigation, Mrs. Greyson was discovered seriously wounded on the upper landing of the front staircase. The police spokeswoman said she was dressed in a nightgown, and had been shot more than once at close range, in the face.”
Royce became very alert, all ears and eyes now. The convenience store operator had been shot in the same way. He stole a look at Colleen. She was curled on the sofa, her eyes fastened to the television screen.
It was a cinch Bobby Mencken hadn’t pulled the trigger on Mrs. Greyson, and Colleen hadn’t either; she’d been with Royce, helping him work on his truck.
Eddie had pulled this one.
“An antique .44 Colt revolver,” the newsman continued, “was discovered beneath her body, and the police spokeswoman said the weapon had been recently fired. Another policeman, however, said that the weapon could not possibly have been the one used to shoot Mrs. Greyson.”
You’re right, it wasn’t the .44, Royce thought. The weapon used to shoot Mrs. Greyson would turn out to be a .25 or a .32 automatic, the same caliber that had killed the convenience store clerk.
The footage of the front of the house cut to a policeman, looking down under the brim of his hat at a microphone, who said, “No way. It’s simple as that. One shot from a weapon of that caliber would have took her whole head off.”
Another angle of the neighbor standing with his hands in his back pockets, shaking his head as an off-camera voice said, “Think she could have shot herself in the face accidentally?” “No way no way no way,” the man rejoined decisively as the microphone was thrust back in his face. “She loved that old gun. She had it years and years and she knew how to use it and didn’t have no reason to kill herself. Her grandchildren was all just here on Saturday.” The footage cut to an ambulance parked approximately where Royce remembered seeing it, half on and half off the lawn in front of the house. Then the picture cut to the ambulance turning slowly out of the driveway. Royce chewed his lip. What the hell had Eddie gotten into? Had he blown away somebody’s grandmother for a television set? Just like he’d blown away somebody’s mother for a six-pack? But there was something else. If this Mrs. Greyson was dead, Colleen and Royce were accessories to murder.
“Mrs. Greyson was taken to Southern Methodist Hospital, where she was pronounced dead on arrival, at one-thirty-five this morning.”
That’s what I like about the electronic age, Royce thought, you always have up-to-the-minute information.
As the commentator turned over his sheet of paper, another was thrust in front of him. “This just in,” he said, taking the paper and reading it. “Police officers responding to an all-points bulletin describing Mrs. Greyson’s car h
ave recovered that car in Highland Park, not far from the Greyson home. Acting on an earlier description given by a neighbor, who said he was walking his dog near the Greyson home when he saw a man in a highly colorful flowered shirt drive away in Mrs. Greyson’s personal car at a high rate of speed, police now say they have a suspect in custody.” The commentator looked up from the paper. “To repeat that, police now say that they have taken into custody a man suspected of shooting to death Mrs. Tyler Greyson in her own home earlier this morning.” He set the new page aside. “We’ll bring you more details on this sad incident as they develop.
“Now this.”
An unconscionably irritating jingle burst over the airwaves into the close little room, and Royce turned it down. On the silent screen, jet airplanes took off and landed, rows of people smiled and ate food off trays, the names of cities aligned themselves with prices.
Neither of them spoke. After a short while Royce took a swallow of whiskey.
“Thing does give good color,” he said. Colleen said nothing.
“Shot her in the face,” he said thoughtfully.
Colleen’s eyes flicked from watching the images on the screen to him and back again.
Royce looked at her. “Hey,” he said. After a moment she looked at him. “How come Bobby Mencken took the rap for him?” He gestured toward the screen with the bottle but kept his eyes on her.
She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the floor between them.
“Why? I don’t get it. The guy’s crazy. Shooting women in the face.”
She chewed her lip and stared at nothing.
“There must have been a reason,” Royce said, waving the bottle. “Assuming he was innocent, that was a big fall to take. Hell, it was a big fall to take even if he was guilty.”
Still she said nothing.
Royce leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm.
“Colleen,” he said gently. “If that’s Eddie they got with that car, we’re never going to see him again.”
She looked at the television, looked at him, then looked at the floor.
“He thought I did it,” she said quietly.
Royce sat very still.
“Who did? Bobby?”
She looked at him. A tiny muscle shivered at the corner of her mouth. “Eddie let him think it. I couldn’t do anything about it. He said he’d…”
“What? He said he’d what?”
Her green eyes were open wide now. Royce could see she was afraid. “Eddie and Bobby took me off the streets,” she said. “No man would have me, except for… except for…”
Royce moved from his chair to sit beside her on the sofa. “What happened, Colleen,” he said, taking her hand solicitously. “Tell me about it.”
She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I’m good at it, aren’t I, Royce? Aren’t I?”
Royce felt a twinge in his groin as she said it. If only she knew, he thought. How couldn’t she? I mean, she knows. “Yeah, baby,” he said, patting her two hands between his own, “the best.”
“Really?” she said, in a tiny voice.
“Honest. A man like me, in stir for, um… two and a half years, he develops certain standards.” He smiled grimly. “What happened in that convenience store?” She glanced toward the television.
“Look,” Royce said, “Eddie’s a media star now. He won’t frequent the same places he used to.” He narrowed his eyes. “Will he squeal on us?”
She shrugged. “What’s to squeal? Even if he did, I mean, unless somebody saw us, I mean, even if they did, we didn’t kill anyone.” She smiled halfheartedly. “At the time, we were having sex behind a livery stable five miles away.”
Royce thought about that. Then he brightened. “Yeah,” he said, “there’d be tire tracks in that dirt yard, maybe. But nothing to connect us to Eddie. Not unless you and he…”
She shook her head. “Never been in a scrape with the law since I met Eddie. I mean,” she blushed, “we haven’t been caught.” Then she frowned. “Bobby Mink got caught though. Oh Royce,” she sighed, “he was such a wonderful guy. I never met anybody like Bobby Mink….”
Her voice trailed off and she looked away.
“Yeah,” Royce said quietly. “Me neither.” He straightened up and fiddled with the cap to the whiskey bottle on the table.
“So it was Eddie killed that woman in the Won-Stop.”
Still looking away from him, she bit her lip and nodded. “Bobby was outside looking out for us. Eddie and I were inside. Eddie had the gun. She—” Colleen shook her head and a tear rolled down her cheek, “she just looked at Eddie when he asked for the money, just looked at him.” She sighed. “He had a gun in his hand, this ugly little black pistol.” She looked at her hand. “Ugliest, meanest looking thing I ever saw. Looked like some kind of nasty insect from some place where there’s no light, ever.” She glanced at him and looked away. “I don’t know. It was the same kind as he had with him to—” she looked at the television, “tonight….” She shuddered. “He likes that kind.”
Royce offered her the bottle. She worried the inside of her elbow with the other hand and refused it.
“She said, ‘Put that pea-shooter away, punk.’ Just like that. ‘Put that damn li’l ol’ pea-shooter away, punk, and git the hell out of here.’
“Eddie said, ‘You touched it, you stupid bitch. What in hell you go and do that for? Huh? What in hell you go and do that for!’ He was crying. I didn’t know what he was talking about at the time, but it turned out he meant she had tromped on the burglar-alarm switch under the counter with her foot while she was talking tough with us. ‘You coulda just give us the money, old woman,’ he said. ‘Come on, you coulda just give us the goddamn money. Shit,’ he said. ‘Do it now!’ That’s when we first heard the sirens. You can’t believe how fast they came. This woman behind the counter gave us this real mean grin; she was gloating, Frank; she was proud she had made this boy cry with a gun in his hand. ‘You’re all alike,’ she said, ‘and I’m sick to death of it.’ And you know, Royce, I don’t think he’d have shot her yet, but then she pulled the key out of the cash register, you know, the key that turns it on? I mean you can’t even get into the thing unless that key’s in it. And she flung it across the room, like this.” Colleen flung her arm sideways toward the television, without turning loose of her elbow.
“I watched it sail across the room, Royce,” she continued, staring at a picture in her mind. “It was the slowest thing you ever saw. It just floated over the canned goods, gleaming in the air under those bright lights like there was all the time in the world for it to get over to the ice cream. Sure, like it was shopping or something. You know, with all that slow music they play for you to shop in the supermarket with? It was like the key itself was making the siren noise, you know?” She paused and looked at Royce. Royce stared at her for a moment, then shook his head.
“I said, ‘We better go, Eddie,’” her lower lip quivered, “and then he shot her,” she said, in a funny voice. She pointed her finger, thumb up. “He just started screaming and emptied the gun into her face….”
TWELVE
“I was standing right next to him, on the same side as the one the gun threw the shells out of. It was an automatic, right? You saw one tonight just like it. Eddie likes them. They’re hot when they come of the gun, you know, the shells, with smoke coming out of them. They were hopping all over the side of my face and neck and arm, stinging me, like. I thought I was in a swarm of wasps or something. But I was too scared to move. I just jumped every time the gun went off right beside me, and then in between shots a shell would skitter over my shoulder and sting a little every place it touched, because they’re so hot from just being fired.
“I screamed to Eddie to stop but all I could do was watch the bullets hit that lady’s face. I remember the shells stinging me and bouncing off me into the rows of potato chips in the stand in front of the counter and onto the floor. They were rolling around all over the place; it sounded like somebod
y had thrown a pocket full of change or… It was like I didn’t really hear the shots.
“And then Eddie grabbed me and ran toward the back of the store. There was a window back there behind the walk-in cooler with a fan going in it. Eddie tore the fan loose with one hand and pushed me through headfirst. I landed in a pile in the dirt out behind the store, and then Bobby was there, yelling like, except he was whispering. ‘What’d you do, what’d you do?’ He kept saying it over and over again until Eddie pitched him the pistol out the window and yelled ‘She shot her! Split!’ Bobby Mink just backed up and stood there and looked at the hot gun in his hands and then looked at Eddie. I said ‘What? Eddie…’ ‘Go on, run!’ Eddie yelled. ‘Get away from here and get rid of it! We’ll meet you home!’”
She was crying now; her tears trickled over her ruined face to the corners of her mouth twisted by the memory. “I had about one second to say different and I didn’t. I let Bobby believe it, and then he was gone.” She looked at Royce. “I mean, it didn’t make any difference; we still had to get rid of the gun….” She looked away. After a moment she shook her head. “He ran. It was as simple as that. He turned the corner… and… He turned the corner, and was… gone….”
She chewed her lip and made a conscious effort to stop her head from shaking side to side.
“Eddie was always the smartest in a situation like that. He always knew what to do and would do it way before anybody else knew what he was thinking about. It was a long time…” She inhaled deeply, her breath shivering as it went in, and sighed. “He isn’t called ‘Fast’ for nothing….” She began to cry. Royce pulled a large blue calico neckerchief out of his back pocket and offered it to her.
“Thanks,” she said simply, She blew her nose.
“It was a long time before I realized that he was as ahead of that situation that night as anyone could have been. He came out the window finally. I was still laying on the ground. He grabbed my arm and pulled me up without a word. About that time the sirens got their loudest, and we heard somebody lock up their brakes and slide to a stop, and the siren died, and there was a bang, not like a shot, but like somebody had jumped on a car hood or something, and the loudest, most out-of-control, meanest, surest devil of a voice you ever heard screamed ‘Freeze, nigger, or I’ll cut you in half!’ I mean, anybody would have dropped in their tracks when they heard that, even if they hadn’t been a… you know, black.”