Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  “Oh, how about this? From now on, you’ll receive all the facts, and I’ll invite you. You can put my word in the bank.”

  “Good enough for me. Of course, you’ll call me when you get back?”

  “Sure. Another item, Alotta, how’s Senator ‘Little Archie’ Winston doing in the polls?”

  “Rotten. He’s got this damn awful habit of telling the truth. People are disgusted with him.”

  “Too bad, he’s a straight-up-and-down guy. How about the Chameleon?”

  “Oh, yeah. Once a week he drops by. We chat for an hour or two. You kiddin’?”

  “Stay in touch.”

  He called Jennifer again. “Forgot something. We’re in kinda a hurry. Spiffy wants to visit a sick friend here in Danville. Call—”

  “Kid, who’s buried in Grant’s tomb?”

  “Oh, Jennifer, call Warren. Tell him to bring Samantha’s things to our house. She’ll be living with us for a while. Take care, love. Bye.”

  A tap sounded at the door and Spiffy answered. Priscilla, the motel clerk’s daughter, entered.

  The Kid glanced at her. He thought. She’ll do fine. A pretty, precocious peek-a-boo blond, will be good company for Samantha. Girl talk’s coming up.

  “Samantha, me and Spiffy are visiting an ailing friend of his. The temperature’s warm in here. Your stomach’s full of pizza. Lock up behind us. I’ll check on you two when we get back.”

  “Sure, Kid, I can hop around enough to do the essentials, and the .410’s beside the bed. We’ won’t let anyone in.”

  She held out her arms in the “give me a hug” position. He thought: What a joy she is! With a fresh lump in his throat, the Kid embraced her.

  With the heater on full-blast, the red four-by-four plowed through the snow. Spiffy blew frosty breath into a fist. “Kid, we’re shooting for a whorehouse. Why did you use me by dumping a load on me about the ill friend crap?”

  “Had to tell her something. Suck it up, Spiffy.”

  He handed Spiffy a sealed envelope along with a roll of hundred dollar bills with a three-inch circumference. Some years ago Jim Gunther had told him an uncle, Arthur Reginald Smithson from Buncombe County, had died, leaving him $500,000 dollars.

  The subject gnawed at him.

  He gave Spiffy orders. He would rent a car, proceed to the area, and read the will of the deceased (if indeed such a person ever existed) with a date of death at about 1959. He would proceed to discreetly inquire about Jim’s association with Mr. Smithson, at which point, he would, if something did not feel right, call the enclosed number, ask for Johnny, and tell him all he had learned. The job should take a few hours. He told Spiffy Samantha would go back home with him. He would complete the Smithson task as soon as possible, return to Wilson, and keep what was left of the money.

  Spiffy took the envelope. “I’ll get the job done.”

  A dry grin spread on the Kid’s face. “Perhaps we’ll be the next Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

  Chapter 15

  Marilyn’s dating parlor resembled an upper-middle class living room, furnished with puddled drapes, a chandelier, chairs, and a couple of leather sofas. Somehow, the pink carpet didn’t match the decorations; one corner held an enormous high-definition television on a six-foot stainless steel table. While broadcasting a constant background, the set played Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

  They flopped on the couch, along with an old gentleman holding a cane between his legs. The rubber tip rested on the floor. Both of his hands twisted around the hook. His head stayed level. He sat erect, wearing a charcoal suit, blue shirt, and a snappy tie.

  Two women entered, one in red, the other in black. The man rose, but the Kid and Spiffy remained seated.

  Neither of the ladies stood still. They responded like puppets handled by a nervous puppeteer, touching, picking, and brushing turned the old man’s cheeks pink. The woman in red giggled, held her hand beside her face, and wiggled her fingers. A tear trickled from her eye. “Hi, Smitty.” With a hop to his right, she seized his arm, while her companion in black did the same on the left, grazing his shoulder with her lips. After these courtesies, each gave him a kiss on the forehead. All three walked to the steps. While leaving they passed Marilyn who, wearing a smart outfit, strolled toward two of her old customers, the Kid and Spiffy. Both remained seated.

  He liked this whorehouse best. He remembered when Marilyn, now thirty-one, won a beauty contest years ago. “Long time no see. Kid, you two sober?”

  “Yes,” said the Kid.

  Marilyn canted her head to the right. “The Kid of yesteryear would say ‘damn straight.’”

  Spiffy leaned forward. “He’s aiming to help a young girl get her sights on a wild turkey. She wants him to stop cursing until they’re through.”

  Marilyn’s hands went to her hips. “Well, I’ll be. Anyway, what can I do for you, Kid?”

  He grinned like a fox with a mouth full of chicken feathers. “You ask?”

  Marilyn smiled. “Kid, Petunia’s upstairs.”

  “Petty still works here? Great, saves tracking her down.”

  “Same room, Kid.”

  He rose and climbed the stairs in threes with his hunting boots registering clicks on the hardwood steps. Without knocking, he marched in. “Oh, Petty, been okay?”

  She had brown hair, green eyes, a trim figure and a cute face. Her character traits included meekness and friendliness, but she had no backbone.

  She leaned forward in her chair. “Great, I work here part time to pick up some money for Tommy. Kid, I can never thank you enough for what you did for us.”

  “Is Tommy able to walk yet?”

  “Yes, thanks to you and the children’s hospital. They didn’t charge a dime, either. You look the same. What’s the situation with the doppelganger?”

  “Stagnant. Oh my, Petty, the terrible suggestions the double makes to me.”

  “Keep struggling to throw him out. You’ll succeed.”

  “Yes, I will someday. Missed you. Remember the incident which kept us from getting married?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need a favor, Petty.”

  “Name the errand, since you and my brother...” She cried. She wiped her eyes. “…were roommates in college in North Carolina.”

  “And hunted together here in your home county, Pittsylvania. “Rubbing his chin, he thought: Be careful now. “You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with Roscoe Wilbrant Slaughter, would you?”

  Petty twisted her lips. “Never heard of him. Does he live around here? Wait. Sometimes, something’s on the news, but I don’t pay much attention.”

  He nodded. “A loner.”

  She reached for a phone book. “Lives in Keeling, yes, here’s an R.W. Slaughter. Must be him. Didn’t you and my brother hunt that area?”

  He leaned forward, “Yes, we did. Call Mr. Slaughter. Tell him he’s a random selection for a free massage. Visit his house. Find out what’s going on. Remember everything you can. If something special strikes your eye, steal the article. Check on the reputation of the place. Use good judgment. Should anything spook you, forget the whole deal. Leave.”

  “For you, yes.”

  He stood. “I’ll go downstairs and wait for Spiffy.”

  Petty rose. “How long since college? Remember the time you beat the guy up in a bar over me?”

  “Sure, I do. I’ll be in touch, Petty.”

  “Not so fast.” She pulled off her blouse. “Come here, nut job.”

  He put a hand on each of her shoulders.

  ***

  Two hours later, the Kid stood over Samantha. He examined her sleeping while she clutched the clown doll. All the while her fingers twitched a code.

  Priscilla slept in the other bed.

  The television played. Scenes switched. Colors flashed. Shadows danced.

  With satisfaction, he left the room. Pausing under a cold starry Virginia sky, a wave of confusion washed over him. They had had a bad experience. What would com
e next?

  In the spring, the dreadful weather would be over.

  Perhaps we’ll get a chilly rain, so many things to do— talk to Ervin about weight training…..we may hire somebody, too. Shotgun practice, she must learn the proper technique to develop muscle memory. Why, oh why, does Ross Slaughter’s property bounce around in my head? We’ll hunt his woods as the site of last resort, if the journey doesn’t end sooner than we expect.

  Chapter 16

  On Friday afternoon, the Kid slumped in his black leather chair and waited for Spiffy. He entered and handed the Kid the information from Buncombe County. A glance confirmed his guess. Arthur Reginald Smithson had left an estate, after the executor paid all expenses, of $12,532.68. The Kid read the entire document. Rising to his feet, carrying the material to the window, stepping to the side, he inserted the papers into a shredder. He calculated that James Walter Gunther received $6,266.34, while Beaver Plains, a non-denominational church in the same county, collected an equal share.

  He informed Spiffy of his intention to locate the person or persons behind the murders of the people buried on the Slaughter property; furthermore, he and Jim Gunther had poached, if not thirty, at least twenty-five properties in Southern Virginia, which routinely included the burial site. In his opinion, Jim qualified as a suspect simply because of the money he possessed but appeared never to earn. In respect to wealth, Jim’s inheritance demonstrated a marked contrast from the five-hundred thousand he had bragged.

  “Ah, Kid, hope you don’t mind—what I learned nudged me to call the number you gave me, and I related the info. Left a message sayin’ I was Spiffy.”

  He leaned forward and unclenched his fingers. “You called them?”

  “Yes, they instructed me to tell you, but how did those detectives find me? I called from a pay phone.”

  “Elementary, Doctor Watson, what did they say?”

  “Ah yeah, they said the details didn’t mean much. Many people make money and don’t report figures to the authorities. Some might steal, shoot pool, gamble, lots of ways. The detectives pointed out John Gunther has never received a speeding ticket, ‘Sherlock.’ Somehow Swampy Joe’s name has come to their attention.”

  “Continue.”

  “Ah, yeah, they said Swampy’s not a Sunday school teacher. He’s been convicted of stealing from stores and has even been questioned about a couple of bank heists. The law has threatened to bring charges against him for using profanity and telling dirty jokes to seventeen-year-olds. Kid, how did Swampy get into the picture?”

  “I’m not sure, Dr. Watson. If I remember correctly, Joe has told me he has hunted in the Danville area and he lives twenty-seven miles away in Yanceyville, North Carolina. Joe hasn’t mentioned poaching the Slaughter woods. If he killed those people, of course he wouldn’t say he had hunted the Slaughter property. Considering the detective’s comments, I believe Joe looks guiltier than Jim. In first place remains Roscoe Slaughter. Now I’m not sure where to put Joe. Gets confusing, huh? Anyway, the perpetrator must be someone familiar with the boundary lines. Are we back to an unknown member or members of the Keeling community? How can someone go in at night and bury a corpse? Keep the body in a freezer? Go on a full moon?”

  He rose and walked a few steps. Turning, he stared at the baseballs on his desk. After picking up one of the state championship mementos, he smacked the ball into his left hand.

  “Spiffy, did Samantha tell you the Chameleon paid her a visit when I went after the sleeping bag?”

  “No!”

  He gave Spiffy the information, advising him to keep these facts secret.

  He returned to his seat and examined a calendar showing March 5; he sat.

  Yesterday, Ervin had pronounced Samantha fit to launch weight training for three hours a week; this exercise, coupled with the arrival of private tutors to fulfill her county’s school requirements, should produce agreement for body, mind, and spirit.

  His job, with Spiffy’s help, was to teach her how to shoulder the .410, not an easy task, because to build muscle memory, the lessons would demand one thousand gun mounts, minimum. She could not think, only react.

  The desk calendar displayed a Bible verse; he drew satisfaction, since the words offered no foresight. Doubts flooded his awareness. Nothing showed progress. Guts twisted. A thousand drawbacks and snags and hazards and disappointments lay ahead, but he swept these fears aside with the conclusion that he would take control of the situation, reach the end of hunting season, and that he would send Samantha home remembering her adventure, if she lived. Memories would be all she carried home, no turkey beard for the scrapbook. She could fire once, but one shot would initiate recoil shyness. Anyone who flinches pulls the gun off target.

  The doorknob on the study revolved a quarter of an inch. The Kid saw the motion.

  “Come in Samantha.”

  Don’t be a sucker. Touch her, Kid.

  She wedged her head around the door. “How the heck did you recognize me? Furthermore, how did you realize someone was standing here?” She tiptoed in.

  “The knob moved.”

  “You saw the movement!”

  “My dear, you should understand the Kid misses very little. Glad you came. The time comes to get down to business. This is the first week in March. I can’t prepare you to hunt in Georgia or the low country in South Carolina for their earlier seasons. Prior to any shot at a wild turkey, you must learn the proper method of mounting a shotgun.”

  The Kid sent Spiffy for Samantha’s 410. He advised her to watch. Her eyes widened when he placed his feet only six inches apart with the heel of his left near the arch of the right. “Looks odd, huh? But this system works. I taught Spiffy. He’ll work with you.” He walked to the corner and selected a gun from a solid cherry cabinet. He started back and smiled, swinging the shotgun around, propping the firearm against his right bicep with the ejection cavity forward and the barrel pointed up. In a whirl, he repositioned the pump under the crotch of his arm. With a snap, he brought the butt plate to his shoulder. With the bead of the front sight aimed between the eyes of the Rocky Mountain goat, he issued a loud “click.”

  “Double wow!”

  “Now you try, Samantha.”

  “Get off my back. I can’t.”

  Her brain cells tried, but they were unable to copy the movements.

  “Yup, how about a little slo-mo for your old pal?”

  “Sure Sam, why not? Don’t fret, we’ll make the style work. The process will become automatic.”

  “Remember. My name’s Samantha.”

  He laughed. With a quick bear hug, he overwhelmed her. She giggled and play-fought. After the embrace, he dealt a three-stroke knuckle haircut.

  “Come in, Spiffy.”

  “Something else, Kid, may I please touch my gun for the first time, maybe practice, too?”

  “Sure, Samantha.”

  Spiffy chewed the gum laced with garlic. He slid the forearm of the .410 to the rear and inspected the magazine, along with the chamber. Finding no shells, he closed the action. While pointing the muzzle toward the ceiling, he presented the gun to Samantha.

  “Now listen,” said the Kid. His deep bass voice hovered above a whisper. “William James said ‘the proper mental attitude at the time a task is begun is the one thing which determines success.’” The Kid locked eyes with her. “Get your head straight.”

  “Number one daughter sitting on ready with head straight.”

  “Good, Smarty Pants; position the feet. Situate the shotgun in any spot you wish. Think. All this time you are using your eyes like radar, tracking the target, preparing to pull the trigger in order to pop the cap, to burn the powder to release the shot. This is of the utmost importance. Remember to find and track the object. Let me throw this tutorial in, but you’ll never use the lesson. In case a turkey is running sideways to you, trying to escape—or heck, he may run obliquely—focus on his beak.

  “Kid, isn’t the most important thing to maintain the right m
ental attitude when you start a task?”

  “Sheesh, Samantha, sure but you…Well, let’s continue. I hope your eye is as clever as your tongue.”

  The phone rang. At the same time Spiffy fumbled for the cell, the Kid stared at Samantha. “Do not shoot the shotgun as if the tool were a rifle. Just snap, boom.”

  “Hello,” said Spiffy. “Friend of yours, Kid.”

  He took the phone. “This’ll take about five minutes. I’ll step to the patio.” Then “Petty, you okay?”

  “Terrific.”

  “How’s Tommy?”

  “Straight A’s in school.”

  “Been to Roscoe’s house?”

  “He ordered me to call him Ross. He paid me and gave me a one-hundred-dollar tip. Gotcha’ ears on, Kid?”

  “Shoot.”

  “This guy’s weird. Creepy, too. Asked my dress size before I came. The moment I arrived, he dressed me in this black outfit and put on a Roman toga thing and danced around me while scattering rose petals. Next, he threw toasted pecans and asked me not to eat them. Yeah, thanks. Okay, he took a bathroom break and I prowled a little. Something strange, on the nightstand—I found a sterling silver bracelet. To read the inscription on the back didn’t require touching the item. The engraving said, ‘I love you, Gretchen, Dad.’ Old family pictures lay scattered in the room, and several confirmed three boys, while none showed girls. After he came out of the bathroom, everything seemed okay for a minute or two, but then out of nowhere, he started cursing and throwing things and yelled for me to leave. He threw the money, too, which I grabbed on the way out.”

  “Don’t go back. The guy must be bipolar or something.”

  “Damn you. You sent me to the place.”

  “Hold on, Petty. Can’t afford to let anything happen to you, since people at Marilyn’s were aware of your location. The sheriff’s office keeps a close eye on him, too.”

  “If he calls, I’ll keep you posted. Hope I helped.”

  “Take care, Petty. I’ll be in touch, bye now.”

  The Kid walked back and handed Spiffy the phone.

  Without a word, he reached for and received Samantha’s gun. Holding the .410 across his chest in slow motion, he brought the butt plate around to the edge and a little under the right armpit. He shouldered the firearm, keeping both eyes opened, dropped his head to the comb, and clicked as he rocked forward. To finish, he lowered the repeater to the floor.