Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  “Doctor, nothing’s wrong with anything we say.”

  “One more item, Warren. The Kid may die as we carry out this plan. If this happens, we wish for you to walk away without feelings of guilt whatsoever.”

  “Yeah, doctor. But that’ll be hard.”

  Chapter 5

  Seated in a chair, the Kid cocked his ears when he heard footsteps echoing in the hall. “Who’s there? Answer me!”

  The intruder entered, followed by his sons. “Remember me, Kid? I’m Warren Hawk. We still want you to take Samantha hunting.”

  A clownlike grin spread across the Kid’s face. “Leave here, all three of you. I’m a sick man.”

  Warren nodded. “Kid, what you need is to get off the booze. We’re going to help.”

  The Kid rose but staggered. He kept his balance by taking small steps. “Where are my wife and son?”

  Warren’s hands went to his hips. “When we came they left. She said to me she’s leaving for good because of the alcohol. I asked if we could talk to you. She said, yes, if you’re still alive. Your son mentioned something about ‘how pitiful’.”

  From a pine tree near the house, a crow cawed and cawed.

  Panic swamped the Kid. His eyes darted. “They’ll come back. They know I’m sick. They won’t desert me. I’m able handle my liquor. The Scotch isn’t getting the best of me.” He slurred the words.

  “You may be right, Kid. Anyway, here’s some food your son cooked for you. At least eat the eggs.”

  “Do I act hungry? All I want is one shot to settle my nerves. If I don’t get a drink, these hands will start shaking. Ervin left a bottle a third full, but I drank the last drop. I keep a spare in the cellar. I’m heading for the basement. When I come back, you three better be gone, or I’ll call the police.”

  From a burlap sack, Warren withdrew five twenty-foot pieces of nylon rope. “Tie up that monkey body. If he tries to scare you with the deep voice, fasten him even more. Make ‘em tight, boys. We gotta’ keep him in bed. Kid, we’re gonna violate your civil rights.”

  The Kid balled his fist. He struck a boxer’s stance. With zombie speed, he cocked his arm in preparation for a jab. He launched a right hook.

  With a smile, Floyd shifted his body in order to deliver a tap to the Kid’s jaw. The blow left the Kid sprawled in bed.

  Within the hour, bound tight as a nail in an oak board, he sank into the depths of withdrawal.

  Warren and the boys had their work cut out for them.

  Hallucinations washed over him. The roaches appeared; however, worse than those, he pictured a bottle of Scotch suspended outside the window.

  ***

  Three days later, Warren pulled himself from a chair. “He’s coming out of the withdrawal. Kid, I thought you were going to die.”

  He focused on Warren. “Do you know where Jennifer and Ervin are?”

  The boys removed the ropes. Warren nodded. “All in good time, friend.”

  “Warren, you and your sons are in violation of the Civil Rights Act.”

  “Guess so. If need be, I’ll go to prison for Samantha.”

  “Are you telling the truth?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “I like that. Ya got guts.”

  “′Preciate the praise, Kid. Coming from you that’s about the biggest compliment ever laid on me.”

  Just as his body stunk from sweat, fecal matter, and urine, so too did the sheets, spread, and mattress reek like an outhouse on a hot summer day.

  Warren opened all the windows.

  First they put on green latex gloves and scraped the feces into a one-gallon plastic bag. That bag went into a larger garbage bag. After that, the rest was easier. Jennifer had a large-capacity washer, but the machine had to handle a second load.

  ***

  Returning the Kid to bed, Warren, ever relentless, broached the subject of his daughter’s obsession, but the Kid refused to accommodate him. Warren made a simple statement: for the Tobacco Land Kid to carry her would be tantamount to a big-league baseball player carrying a young boy to the stadium.

  Warren’s analysis expressed true cracker-barrel philosophy.

  As exasperation swept the Kid, he glared at Warren with fist clenched,. He uttered, “I’m sick of this. How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Oh, Warren.” He slapped his hands together. “This conversation stays here.

  Ervin stepped into the doorframe and leaned on the jamb. “You need a sedative.”

  Hearing the sound of Ervin’s voice, the Kid’s eyes focused on the door. Ervin entered, with Jennifer close behind. He stopped and rested his hand on the frame of a floor globe while Jennifer leaned against his antique secretary with a rollback top. The scene overwhelmed the Kid, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He sobbed. “You didn’t desert me.”

  They stepped to the bedside. Jennifer, too choked up to speak, looked at Ervin to give explanations. “No, Dad, we’re trying to remove the bottle for good. If we don’t, you’ll be interred in six months.”

  The Kid shook his head. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, Dad. Stop drinking or go to your grave. Dad, someone is coming.”

  “Who?”

  The president of the local Alcoholic Anonymous entered the room. All formed a semi-circle around the bed. The AA leader took the Kid’s left hand. On the other side of the bed, Jennifer took his right. The rest joined hands to form a complete circle. They prayed. The Kid gave his word to Almighty God never to touch another drop.

  “I’m that far down, Son?”

  Nodding, Ervin gazed into his eyes.

  “I must stop socializing with people who drink. When Spiffy comes, if you smell beer on his clothes or breath, tell him to leave. Spiffy isn’t in the shape I’m in, but he should quit, too.

  Warren leaned forward. “Here’s a goal for you. This job will take your mind off the bottle. Carry my daughter turkey hunting. “

  “Warren, I don’t think so.”

  Warren’s eyebrows lowered. “We worked hard. Please meet her.”

  “I can say No tomorrow. Ervin, give me something for sleep.”

  With his sons following, Warren departed. Jennifer slumbered, clothed, on the bed while snoring like a three-hundred-pound boar hog. Ervin napped in a recliner while the Kid listened and watched.

  Chapter 6

  Weeks passed. The Kid’s iron will fought the desire for booze. Even though this battle would last the rest of his life, he would win.

  ***

  One night, the Kid glanced at the clock and halted Ervin as he rose to leave., “Sleep here tonight. Alotta Vendetta comes on in ten minutes. Met her two years ago when she came to town. She interviewed me for a slot on her show about hunters and the forest. Been to see her many times. She overdoes some things and throws sex into her routine because she wants to get noticed and maybe find a job in New York. She even pays a band with her savings. Before new employment, she needs to get her flat nose fixed. We’re close friends.”

  The Kid changed channels to WROT to see Alotta’s show, but before her newscast started, Ervin fell asleep.

  In the corner, Alotta’s band called Wiley’s Wussies hung out. The group consisted of two black dudes, one on an acoustic guitar and the other curled over an array of drums, while a white dude sat at a keyboard. All dressed in blaze-orange tuxedos, white shoes, and black ties. At their pleasure, they played a four-second measure that endorsed her words or movement.

  Wearing a red baseball cap with black letters that said, “I’m good,” Alotta sported a beige halter emblazoned with crimson kissing lips and white boy shorts. The back of the skimpy pants showed blue handprints. Rather than walking around the desk, she sprawled over the top while teasing, twitching, and twisting. She ended up on the floor showing a full split.

  The Wussies played a four-second measure.

  Bouncing to her feet, picking up a baseball bat, stroking the barrel, she kissed the top. “This is nice and stiff, and I’m Alotta Vend
etta with hard, hard, hard information from WROT.”

  The Wussies played the four-second measure.

  She perched on the large end. “Breaking news—-a new poll released today shows Senator Archibald “Little Archie” Winston’s ratings continue to fall with the people of his district in North Central North Carolina. The figures indicate Congressman Winston’s approval rating has plunged, if not to thirty percent, at least to twenty-nine. Remember—-he provided money for the Montclair Dam and labeled the other projects as wasteful spending or simple corruption. Folks in TV land, he locked himself into a situation which will cause his defeat in the next election.”

  The band played the measure.

  Standing, she moved her prop from her seat to the batting position. “He has two strikes and some balls— for him to survive, something else must come into play.”

  The band played the measure.

  She brought the bat down. She swung the thirty-three-inch piece of white ash six times in the role of a batter in the on-deck circle. Again, with her hands on her knees, she rested on the big end. “A little background, folks: two years ago, with the help of historical human remains dogs, sheriff’s deputies exhumed a fourth body on property owned by the eccentric Roscoe Willbrant Slaughter. This matter started after the first of the four cadavers turned up in Mr. Slaughter’s woods. The discovery took place when children playing in the forest found human foot bones. He denied any knowledge of the bodies. The sheriff’s office steadfastly maintains no evidence exists whatsoever with which to arrest him, but he remains a person of interest. This reporter called him this morning, and without saying a word, he slammed the phone into its carriage.”

  The band played the measure.

  “On another subject, our bad boy, naughty-naughty Chameleon, has been inactive. Hmm, Mr. Chameleon, do you work in a machine shop? Enjoy using a hand or bench grinder? My number is at the bottom of the screen. Find a pay phone. Let’s chat.”

  The band played the measure.

  “Last but very important: sadly, the funeral for Wong Lee will take place in Durham County tomorrow at the Everlasting Arms cemetery at 11:00 am. The community will sorely miss him. He came to the United States from Asia with his parents many years ago and started a restaurant. He amassed a fortune, and his pocket stayed open for the needy. Sad to say, the police hold no clues to this cowardly slaughter, but robbery seems to have been the motive.”

  Allotta and the band removed their hats and observed a moment of silence.

  “Allotta Vendetta from WROT, until next time.”

  The Kid slept.

  In the dressing room, Alotta slid, shimmied, and squeezed into a snappy New York City outfit. She departed.

  Chapter 7

  He wore warm camouflage clothing and a matching ski mask while carrying a two-pound, forty-inch spade and a ninety-pound corpse. A full moon played hide-and-seek with a number of fluffy clouds drifting in a starry Pittsylvania County, Virginia sky. With frosty breath, he glided through the woods on quiet feet. Now and then he stepped on and broke a stick. He would pause and take a minute to study the woods. He followed a frozen six-foot-wide stream until one of the larger clouds dimmed the moon. He trudged along— since he knew the territory, straying a bit would do no harm. After the cloud flowed by, the moon brightened and revealed an awesome sight. It must be the Chameleon in disguise. What could he do? Snaking his fingers around a double action .38 revolver, he crept forward. He found that the object turned out to be a pine tree which the wind had snapped at the height of six feet, due to a pitch-covered canker. In the semidarkness, this had turned into a bogeyman. A sudden breeze struck his cold sweat, and even with winter clothing, he shivered and rubbed his clenched stomach. Sucking a breath, he promised himself this would be his last entombment in this forest.

  A new terror struck him. A sound no longer tickled his ears. Without pause, he slammed the body to the ground. Before him, two vacant eyes stared at the heavens, while a bit of tongue protruded through the girl’s harelip mouth, but what could have happened to the sterling silver charm bracelet which had tinkled now and then? A search around the body revealed nothing.

  He slipped away to another burial location, never to return to his favorite graveyard.

  Chapter 8

  At dawn, Jennifer and Ervin entered the Kid’s room.

  Jennifer scrambled beside her chair to gather her knitting equipment, but the doorbell interrupted her attempt. She walked to the window. Her eyebrows rose. “Kid, It’s ‘lotta Vendetta and two men. She knows, Kid. She knows.”

  “Oh heck, Jennifer, who cares? She can’t prove anything. We’ve been friends for a while. Say nothing. Send her up. Wait. If the men are not here with Miss Vendetta, send them up first.”

  They were detectives, one from Pittsylvania County, Virginia, the other from Caswell County, North Carolina. They appeared ordinary in dress and manner. Furthermore, they looked like your prom date’s Uncle Fud.

  The Dan River lay between their counties. The Kid asked them to sit. The officer from Pittsylvania, with a nervous voice and a hacking cough, started with the bodies found on the Slaughter property. The Kid held up his hand to cut him off, telling him he knew all that. He instructed him to get to the point. The officer said that the public was upset, to say the least, with no progress in the matter while elections approached.

  Restraining his coughing, he reminded the Kid a portion of his popularity had dwindled since the Shenandoah rescue, but many people in Eastern North Carolina and Southern Virginia still remembered him. If he would discreetly ask a few questions, he might turn up something. For the moment, the only suspects were an ex-insurance sales representative called “Mean Man,” Mr. Slaughter, the Chameleon, but most likely a perfect stranger living near the graveyard in the community.

  They both leaned forward when the Kid asked them to add a suspect, telling them his name was Jim “Twenty-two Points” Gunther. The Twenty-two Points nickname originated when he shot a huge whitetail deer in Saskatchewan some years ago. The Kid elaborated. He had poached the Slaughter property with Jim many times. During those occasions, the Jindley family had owned the acreage. The officer from Pittsylvania asked the Kid to explain what aroused his suspicions. The Kid said that he had never trusted him. Something about his body language plus the look in Jim’s eyes and his facial features when he looked at adolescent girls. Furthermore, Jim had no job but never lacked for money.

  The officer from Virginia handed the Kid his card, telling him the code name would be Johnny. They walked to the door. One of the detectives put his hand on the knob. Pausing, he stared at his counterpart. Both nodded. He told the Kid to keep this in total confidence: during a fight, Wong Lee, a restaurant owner using a night deposit in Durham, managed to pull some hair from his killer. Hence, they would appreciate a blood or body sample of any suspect— the chance might occur that a connection existed between Wong Lee and the bodies found on the Slaughter property. When the detective twisted the knob, the Kid halted him, pleading for them to allow Spiffy to have access to all information.

  They stared at each other and both nodded.

  ***

  With the moves of a skilled hot, wet stripper, lean as a Cheetah and dressed in killer tight black slacks and a low-cut cropped crimson blouse, Alotta entered. “How’ve you been, Kid? Think I know why you haven’t been to see me lately. This is my new assistant, Mee Erotica.”

  “Welcome, ladies. May I help you?”

  Alotta leaned her head toward her right shoulder. She held her fist next to her face, opened it, exposed her palm, and wiggled her fingers. “An interview?” She gave her body a quarter turn to speak faintly to Erotica.

  Mee Erotica, a twenty-something black woman, dressed in a “go to hell” dark green Robin Hood uniform, could pass for an Olympic hopeful or a movie star. Using her tongue, Mee flipped the camera “on” switch. Turning her head, she smiled at the Kid and licked her lips. With Alotta twisted to the side and flipping through a note pad, Mee
spun, bent over, and twerked the Kid.

  With grace, Alotta let the Kid off the hook when he denied alcoholism. She allowed him to talk about his glowing retirement years. Looking at her watch, she kept the interview to six minutes. At which point, she signaled Mee to exit the room. Like a bunny, she hopped to the steps.

  Alotta smiled. “Off the record, you’re an alcoholic. Big time, right?

  “Yeah.”

  While rolling her hips, she cruised to his side. Like a curious calico in heat, she purred, growled, and crawled onto the bed. Leaning, she ran her fingers through his hair. Smiling, she teased her bottom lip, using her tongue. She brought her thumb between her lips to suck. She removed it coated with saliva. Grinning like a sprite, she tilted back on the footboard to rub his calf with her right hand. Rolling from the bed, she stood. “Gotta’ feeling you’re going to send big news my way. Little Archie’s a goner. The Chameleon’s too elusive. I need something else. You used to see me. Get back in shape so you can come. I know you want to come.” She nodded. She swept her curly brunette locks to the top of her head. They toppled to her shoulders. She walked to the door. She swayed her hips. Placing the tip of her little finger into the corner of her mouth, she smiled and raised her open right hand. With palm forward, she wiggled her fingers. “Ta-da.”

  ***

  Jennifer returned. “Kid, our daughter is waiting downstairs.”

  The Kid took a deep breath. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth, caught the red-eye, huh?”

  “Yes, Kid, Spiffy waits downstairs, too, while Warren discusses the importance of good electrical work with his boys.”

  The Kid pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s get through this misery Jennifer, so we can send Warren packing. Of course, let Spiffy stay a bit.”

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth, an established attorney from Philadelphia, led the entourage. A brunette with flowing hair, she lacked beauty but had the cute girl-next-door look. She wore a hand-tailored outfit and displayed an aristocratic manner. She hugged the Kid; they whispered. He frowned and cried.