The Road to Nanty Glo (A Dan Wilder Short Story)
Page 3
Grinning, Wilder went back, entered the cafeteria, and ordered a cheeseburger and coffee. He was starving. He hadn’t had anything to eat since half a hotdog at midday. He sat at a table where he could see the front of the cocktail lounge next door.
Outside, a plane came in and landed. When it stopped moving adjacent to the airfield entrance, the door in the side of the fuselage opened. A flight attendant appeared, the passengers emerged, and began to descend the flight of steps that had been wheeled up.
Wilder listened absently to the public address system announcing the arrival of the flight.
Inside the cocktail lounge, Graysuit listened to the flight information, too, then ignored it.
Same with Brownsuit. He listened briefly, then ordered another highball.
Someone at a table near Wilder’s in the cafeteria had a small radio going on the police band. He could hear: “. . . Car Twelve, we are sending EMS vehicle to Fletcher Avenue. Captain Fredericks is on the way. Have you found any ID on the woman in the car trunk?”
Wilder stopped listening, finished eating, and squinted up at the harsh lighting in the cafeteria. Rising, he went out and over to the stall where he got the newspaper. Examining sunglasses for a moment, he shook his head and picked up a baseball cap, a Pittsburgh Pirates cap, tried it on, took it, and paid for it.
Back in the cafeteria, he sat at the same table. Once again he could hear the nearby radio, still going: “. . . Alright, Car Twelve, bring in the two suspects. Car Fifteen will wait for the Medical Examiner . . .”
Outside, several cars pulled to a stop at the front terminal entrance. Newsmen and cameramen piled out and hurried inside. Vans stopped briefly to let TV crews get off. All of them bustled inside and across the terminal straight to the airfield entryway.
From inside the café, Wilder watched the passing parade from beneath the bill of his new Pirates cap.
Several official-looking men entered at the field entrance from the newly arrived plane. The sprinkling of people in the terminal edged aside and watched as they hurried past. The news people didn’t edge away. They crowded in front of the big distinguished looking man in the forefront of the newcomers.
He stopped and so did they. Some held out microphones, and the rest trained TV cameras on him.
They shot a battery of questions at him: “Mr. Kells, will the Attorney General . . .”
“Does Miller’s murder mean the prosecution’s case is in jeopardy now?”
Through the glass-brick wall of the cocktail lounge, Graysuit watched the busy people out in the terminal. A slight contemptuous smile touched his lips. He checked the time.
Brownsuit paid no attention to any of it, just took another pull at his drink and went on waiting.
Out in the terminal, the crowd headed toward the front entrance.
Kells was preceded by a uniformed man in a state trooper uniform, but he wore a soft garrison cap rather than a Stetson. He stayed partly in front of Kells, gently but firmly keeping any of the too-eager news and TV people from impeding the Assistant Attorney General’s progress.
Wilder took one last long look at the tail-end of the procession crowding toward the limos and vans outside. Then he got another coffee and positioned himself so he could see the cocktail lounge entrance through the café’s wide windows.
Out by the waiting limousines, official kowtowing went on awhile, with Kells shaking hands with several local men. Then he and the trooper and several others quickly entered official cars and took off swiftly and smoothly, leaving the news and TV people scurrying to get into their cars and vans so they could follow the story.
The small radio on the nearby table caught Wilder’s attention again: “. . . the names of the two teenagers are being withheld. They will be turned over to juvenile court . . .”
Wilder wondered what that was about.
“The body of the woman found in the trunk of their car has been identified as that of Mrs. Norma Jenkins, of 422 Elm Street, South Fork. She was last seen by neighbors at 2:30 this afternoon when she drove off to pick up her youngest child at school . . .”
Okay, that explained what the juvies had been nabbed for.
He sipped his coffee, watching from beneath the bill of his Pirates cap, waiting to see what the two whackers did next.
The terminal’s PA system began again: “Flight Number 217 will be departing at the main gate in exactly . . .”
Inside the cocktail lounge, Brownsuit stood and left. Graysuit drained his glass, preparing to do the same.
When Brownsuit emerged into the terminal area, Wilder left the café and watched him stop at the lockers. Without waiting longer, Wilder went over to the door leading out to the airfield. Before going outside, he glanced back and watched as Brownsuit took an attaché case from one of the lockers, then left by the side exit, between the lockers and the cafeteria.
Wilder was about to go outside when Graysuit emerged from the cocktail lounge, already carrying an attaché case.
Wilder went outside. One man at a time.
He walked quickly along the airfield side of the building to the northeast corner, where he halted and peered carefully around in time to see Brownsuit approaching along the sidewalk next to the building.
A young man and woman were walking away from Wilder along the sidewalk toward Brownsuit.
Wilder waited just short of the corner of the building, alert, listening to the sound of Brownsuit’s footsteps approaching. The sounds came nearer. Wilder inhaled, braced himself, waited one more beat, then stepped forward around the corner of the building and started along the sidewalk.
Brownsuit swerved in toward the building wall, and Wilder swung out toward the curb, giving each other room to pass. When they came shoulder to shoulder, Wilder hit Brownsuit with a right cross. It landed against the side of Brownsuit’s head. The punch cracked loudly and the attaché case fell to the sidewalk.
Farther along, the young couple turned and looked back.
“What the hell was that?” the young man said.
Wilder stood close to Brownsuit against the bright lights behind him out on the field, beyond the corner of the building. The sound of an airplane’s engine revving getting louder.
“Don’t get involved in it, Joe,” the young woman cried.
“I won’t, honey.”
Brownsuit appeared to sag against Wilder, whose arm held him up.
“Come on, Joe, please! It’s cold out here. That wind is going right through me.”
Joe turned back to her. “Alright, honey, I’m coming.”
They started on, but Joe turned, looked back, and saw the bigger man stoop and pick up the other’s attaché case. He laughed and clapped a hand on the other man’s back. The sound was much like the sound of the punch, earlier, a loud whack.
Joe shook his head with disapproval.
“I guess those two are friends,” he muttered, “but if one of my friends patted me on the back that hard, we wouldn’t be friends for long.”
The young woman took his hand and tugged him along with her.
“Come on, Joe. Forget them.”
Wilder watched the couple until they turned from sight at the far front corner of the building. Then he checked the other way, toward the airfield. Dragging Brownsuit closer to the corner so he could see around it, he saw Graysuit in a line of people getting their tickets processed at a little stand near the doorway.
Out on the field, a twin engine plane waited, revving its engines softly now.
Graysuit turned and peered back inside the terminal, then faced forward, looking impatient. He was still holding his attaché case.
After taking his quick look at Graysuit around the corner, Wilder dragged and carried Brownsuit in among the parked cars. When he reached the Buick, he lowered Brownsuit against the side of the Buick and strangled him. For awhile, Brownsuit’s feet twitched, then they went slack, and finally his body slumped limply to the pavement.
Bending over the body, Wilder search
ed it and found keys. Shoving the carcass partway beneath the Buick, he used one of the keys to open the attaché case. Inside was a semi-automatic pistol. He slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t find any money, though.
No payoff dough here. Maybe they’d been paid for the Miller job some other way.
Snapping the attaché case shut, he slid it under the car past Brownsuit’s head.
Just as he straightened up, Graysuit rounded the front end of the Buick. They stood face to face, both startled.
Graysuit recognized Wilder in the nearby parking area lights.
Wilder clipped him with a fast left, knocking Graysuit against the side of the Buick. With his other hand, Wilder was trying to get his newly acquired handgun out of his pocket.
Graysuit saw what he was up to and swung his attaché case at Wilder’s head. It didn’t connect solidly, but it glanced off his left shoulder and knocked him over against the other parked car.
Out on the field, the plane’s engine whine suddenly rose even higher than it had been all along.
Graysuit looked back at the field. His plane sounded as if it was about to take off without him. He quit trying to fumble with the catch on his attaché case, turned and ran around the Buick, heading toward the nearby corner of the terminal.
Wilder finally got the gun out of his pocket and raced after him. He stopped at the corner of the building.
The engines were now a deafening scream. As the plane swung around, its lights picked up Graysuit running across the field toward it. When the plane continued its turn, Graysuit was in darkness again. Before he could get near it, the plane completed its swing and slowly started across the field toward the take-off runway.
Graysuit kept running and yelling, but the engine howl drowned out all sound.
Wilder braced himself against the corner of the building and aimed the handgun. He fired shot after shot. The reports were drowned by the high, whining engine roar.
Out on the field, Graysuit faltered, broke stride, and stopped. His body jerked each time a bullet hit him. Dropping to his knees, he slithered forward to the tarmac.
Wilder could see Graysuit’s face turn sideways as he lay there. His mouth was open, his lips slack, and his eyes stared sightlessly.
Beyond him, the plane moved away. The cloud of slipstream dust behind almost obscured it from sight.
Wilder waited until he was sure Graysuit was down for good. Then he turned and headed back toward the Buick, where he grabbed one of Brownsuit’s hands, wrapped his fingers around the gun handle and the trigger to leave his prints on them. Then he put the arm and the gun it held carefully beside the rest of the body.
Shaking an admonishing finger at the dead man’s face, Wilder murmured, “Whuffo y’all shoot dat nice man fo’? That jes’ ain’t neighborly, boy!”
Rising with a grin on his face, he crossed to the side entrance and went inside the terminal again.
Retrieving his carry-on bag from the locker, he crossed to the car rental counter. While he was dickering for the car, several uniformed police hurried through the main terminal entrance and hustled across toward the airfield gate.
Someone had finally reported Graysuit’s carcass, face down out there on the tarmac.
Everyone turned to watch the police go out onto the field, including Wilder.
Turning back to the rental agent, he took the car keys, smiled, and went out through the main entrance and around to pick up the car.
On the highway in the renter, Wilder turned right into the thinning stream of traffic and headed north toward town.
When he topped the rise and the road dipped down along the ridge side, the red neon Nanty Glo sign halfway down was still lit.
Wilder slowed as he approached the motel entrance. Before he reached it, a car coming uphill from town turned sharply into the motel entrance and disappeared up the ramp.
As Wilder drove slowly past, he could see the other car cross the motel square. It stopped in front of unit 17. He was past, and didn’t see if anyone got out of the car. He kept going.
The two men burst into unit 17 holding handguns. They found no one there. When they realized the room was unoccupied and there was no man waiting there for them, they stared at one another.
“What gives?” one of them asked, disgustedly putting his gun away.
Downtown, Wilder stopped for the traffic light at the turn onto the bridge. Although Main Street to his right was still brightly lit, things were settling down for the night. Hardly anyone was out this late.
Turning left, he crossed the bridge, made the right turn on the far side, and followed 219 northward again, this time on the west side of the river.
Approaching the top of the ridge road, in his rearview mirror he could see the red neon “NANTY GLO MOTEL” in the distance behind him. As his renter crested the top of the hill and leveled off, the Nanty Glo sign became no longer visible, blocked now by the hilltop behind him.
He drove northward out of town toward the interstate.
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