Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  Samantha shuddered, her jaw plunging, “You are the Tobacco Land Kid.” She touched his cheek. “You handle a gun with the class a master plays a violin. Yes, you are a virtuoso. The elegance, the style you give a firearm, oh, me, me. As if your hands, when they touch a shotgun, become man and wife. Do you caress Jennifer with the same proficiency?”

  He rolled his eyes, shook his head, sat down, and dropped his face into his right hand.

  Grinning like a mule with a mouth full of briars, Spiffy placed two cloves of garlic in his jaws.

  The Kid decided the best course of action would be to change the subject, remembering to expect absolutely anything from her.

  “Spiffy, do you and Samantha want to go to Labelle tomorrow to the annual dinner some turkey hunters are having?”

  While chewing and smacking, he sat up straighter. “Sure, why not.”

  Samantha’s bottom lip pushed against her top. “A couple of things here, Kid— Mean Man plus several others might attend. Daddy told me about him. Anyway, they all see me as a meal ticket. They want talk shows, sell turkey calls, who knows what. Kid, I don’t wish for anybody to use me. Don’t ever tell our story. Promise me.”

  “Sure, you have my word.”

  Spiffy’s Adam’s apple jumped. “Mean Man’s got a grudge.”

  The Kid’s hands went to his hips. “So?”

  Samantha shook her head. “He doesn’t like you,” she said as she flopped beside Spiffy.

  The Kid’s jaws tensed. “Well?”

  Spiffy leaned forward on the couch as he placed his arms between his legs. “Kid, he says the next time …understand what I mean?” Spiffy wrung his hands. He stopped and bit the knuckle of his trigger finger.

  A smile sneaked across the Kid’s face. “Yes, I think so. Where did you gain this… latest piece of education?”

  “I left the room for a moment and I answered the ground line. You received an anonymous call— a trip to Labelle might not be a good idea for you.”

  The Kid shrugged. “Call Alotta and give her the location, time, and place. Let’s make certain we attend. If Mr. Mean Man Harding wishes to entertain some sort of understanding with me, perhaps I should not disappoint him. Wanta go, Spiffy?”

  “Sure Kid, how is the muscle training going?”

  “Are you askin’ if I’m in good enough shape to take on Mr. Harding?”

  “Aw, yeah.”

  “Hmm, I’m not certain I can whip him after I’m one hundred percent. Maybe— I’m somewhere around eighty. Anyway, in case you two wonder how the trouble started between Mean Man and me, I’ll tell you. It started in the fifth grade. We played marbles, and I won most of the time. Later, I made the baseball team, and he got cut. He asked Sally LeJohn, the prettiest girl in school, to the senior prom. She said no to him but yes to me. People loved me while they tolerated him. This made him jealous. Here’s the strange part. I pitied him. He picked up on this and became bitter. Nevertheless, everybody needs one friend, so I let him hang around whenever he wanted. We hunted together. I began a career with the schools, and he sold insurance. Heard he became ill. He came to our house and acted funny. He didn’t look right in the face. That hasn’t changed. We argued, we fought. His speed failed to match mine. Thereafter, we never witnessed situations the same, and I tried to avoid him. Something has gone wrong with Mean Man’s head.”

  The Kid nodded at Samantha. “Go use the bathroom.”

  She left.

  After leaning back in his seat, he motioned for Spiffy to slide closer, to inform him about going to La Comida for a purpose, to watch Jim Gunther with hawks’ eyes. Jim would attend, since he never missed. Years ago, they’d become friends at the event and begun to hunt together. A fair amount of the hunting took place when they poached the property now belonging to Roscoe Slaughter. In conclusion, he told Spiffy to carry green surgeon’s gloves, several plastic bags, and cotton swabs, with hopes of capturing a bit of blood or something for a DNA sample.

  The focus of interest shifted to Samantha’s shooting, prompting Spiffy to push his chair back. The Kid listened intently when Spiffy reminded him that the trees were smaller due to the changes in logging practices. Then the Kid struck his hands together. Both nodded. They must get her into an open area for an unmoving shot; nevertheless, her instincts said the turkey would be walking or running.

  Sitting up straight, Spiffy smiled. “I’ll talk to your old coaching assistant, George Meadows, about the pitching machine.”

  The Kid nodded. “That’s correct. The logging these days leaves clear cuts. The first years produce a thicker growth. However, the Slaughter woods is mature, maybe fifty years old, leaving the few remaining big trees far apart--The type of forest Sam’s instincts suggest. What draws us to Ross’s property?

  Spiffy squinted. “Got a thought?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  Chapter 17

  The Kid wore his usual uniform of blue shirt and khakis, Samantha dressed in her Native American clothes, and Spiffy sported black pants and a yellow shirt; at noon, they departed. The black limousine zipped from Wilbanks toward La Comida. Samantha showed her love for Spiffy by leaning over from the backseat to swing her gold coin back and forth across his face. “Spiffy, you ever juked a woman?”

  “Spiffy, just ignore her...Samantha, why can’t you....She probes me with those bull crap nonintellectual interrogations when I least expect them.”

  “I’ll answer.”

  She bounced in her seat. “Fire away, Spiffy.”

  Spiffy stopped smacking on the garlic. He closed his library copy of Gone with the Wind. “What facts do you want, Samantha?

  “Hmm, my time runs out, Spiffy. I can’t decide whether to or not.”

  “Aw yeah, tell me your conclusion, should you discover you will live a long life?”

  The Kid chuckled.

  ***

  The miles slipped by until a sign that read “La Belle, Home of the Beavers,” appeared. He guided the limo into a combination burger joint-gas station-and-vegetable stand. They got out of the car, which reeked of onions and garlic.

  “Ah, Kid, you going into the restroom?”

  He frowned. “Don’t tell me, Spiffy, I recall a mirror hangs on the wall. I won’t peep.”

  At the same time the Kid entered the men’s room, Samantha entered the ladies’.

  The Kid relieved himself, flushed the toilet, turned, and halted at the washbasin. He thought. Don’t gaze up. Heck, he hasn’t spoken to me in a while. The sound of water running in the toilet stopped. Perhaps he’s gone.

  He looked at the mirror. Wolfgang appeared.

  “Kid, Wolfgang drapes your psyche. Relax, Kid. Talk to Wolfgang for a change.”

  “Sure Wolfgang, communicating with you troubles me little, because they named me the Tobacco Land Kid. At one time, I resembled you more. You got into the barroom fights. Now, though, I discover the best in me. You demonstrate my old weaknesses. You may creep around in me, but I abhor you and everything you stand for.”

  “You are me, whether you admit the details or not. Remember the chatter. Think of the talk about eighteen bulls’ eyes in a row at Fishburne.”

  “Yeah, Wolfgang, you forget. The Kid has the targets and a note of recognition from the rifle coach. The packet includes a picture, too.

  “Huh, okay, I’ll grant you, but how about the bull you told Spiffy?”

  “What? Go ahead. Spill your guts!”

  “You make gibberish of not being afraid to lose. Hell, Kid. Yeah, I’ll call you Kid if the term makes you feel better. You fear fights, but you let me brawl. Don’t drop your eyes, Kid. Now, doesn’t eye contact trigger good feelings?”

  “Perhaps. Anyway, I can aim down glass or iron sights at you anytime, Wolfgang.”

  “You utter an odd statement, Kid. You will receive an invitation to do such in a moment. First, though, give up all this nonsense about helping this girl bag a tom. Heck, go ahead. Have sex with her. You should. I command you. Unless you do, I’
ll take over the lead role and do the honor myself.

  “No, you won’t!”

  “Listen, Kid. Tonight, I’ll gamble a special old enemy of yours is coming to this supper. Here is an opportunity to put you on the good side again. Think Kid. All you need to do is let someone else carry the child hunting, and you will find the fishhook gone from the flesh. Take a couple of drinks. Relax with the boys. Simple, huh? In addition, hey, she’s a cute chick. Touch her. I’ll bet she’ll quiver.”

  “Screw you, Wolfgang. You think of things I don’t.”

  “Kid, what waits in your right hand? My goodness, the faithful hunting knife. Bet the blade gives you comfort.”

  The Kid reviewed the edge with an air of disbelief. “Why did I...?”

  “Yeah Kid, fall on the point stomach first. Everyone will think you made a misstep.”

  “Wolfgang, the Kid doesn’t make those.”

  “Yes you do. You didn’t swim beside Faith. You let her drown.”

  “You’re a liar!” He jammed the handle butt-first into the mirror. The shards tinkled on the concrete floor.

  Spiffy snatched the bathroom door open. “You okay? I heard you talking and the sound of glass breaking.”

  “Spiffy, run up front. Hand the owner this hundred-dollar bill. Tell him to treat himself to a new mirror.”

  Samantha arrived at the car first. When they appeared, she demanded he get in, while asking Spiffy if he would wait outside. He was so pale, she questioned him. After he admitted he had just suffered through a session with his doppelganger, she popped him on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Kid. You’re not going to a nuthouse. I’m not dying until I get a turkey or enjoy the time of my life trying.”

  Spiffy swung into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and snapped the transmission into D. The vehicle’s tires barked on the cement, causing back-wheel drift.

  ***

  The black car veered into the La Comida parking lot. Before stopping, the Kid spotted Mean Man’s ride, and he pulled within hearing distance to observe what type game Mean Man played. Hands on hips, dressed all in buckskin with three-inch leather strips hanging from each sleeve, he chatted with three strapping young men. Sporting a maniacal grin, a huge well-built body, milk white skin, a shaved head, and a pig’s face, his appearance summoned one word— terrifying.

  He offered the youths a hundred dollars apiece if, all together, their efforts flung him to the ground. The exhibition began, bearing resemblance to three eighth-grade boys grappling with a black bear who was unaffected by the experience in spite of all their panting and sweating,. The young men yielded. The contest lasted five minutes.

  Looking skyward, extending his arms perpendicular to his sides, slobbering, spewing frenzied laughter, this nutcase, in an attempt to be a magnanimous “great guy,” handed each boy a bill with Benjamin Franklin’s picture.

  The Kid nodded, smirked, and gunned his ride. Spinning the steering wheel counterclockwise, he slammed the brakes. The left side of the Kid’s vehicle halted one foot from Mean Man’s unit after a shower of inch-and-a-half pieces of granite, with an ear- splitting sound, dented the driver’s section. He drove the automobile to the front and backed up so his rear bumper rested six inches from his nemesis’s car. Dropping the gearshift to D, putting his foot on the brake, and revving the engine, he released the vehicle. With tires screaming, the machine broke traction, spraying the front of his adversary’s auto with rock.

  The Kid steered his unscathed automobile into a safe harbor.

  “Listen, Samantha.”

  “Yes, Kid.”

  “You pay attention to learn something about me, okay.”

  With her hands on her chest, she picked at her fingernails.

  He continued, “I never lie unless the situation demands such. The untruth also has to meet other criteria. Do you understand? He’s coming. Both of you stay in the car.”

  After opening the door to the limo, he slammed it shut. Feeling his blood race and his hands sweating, he held a balled fist behind his head. As his mouth tensed, he stared.

  Here he comes. This won’t be easy. Be ready to fight. A rusty screwdriver lies about three yards ahead. When he crosses the tool, rush him. Set your feet. Aim to knock him flat.

  The Kid’s shoulders squared to the aggressor. “Long time no see.”

  Mean Man stopped short of the mark. “Yeah, Kid.”

  The Kid’s fists balled and went to his hips. “Want some action? At least we’ll get this over with.”

  “How about after supper? Never liked to fight on an empty stomach.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Huh, think you can make me mad, Kid?” He broke the stare. “Nope, you can’t control me in any way. The car’s from the seventies. So forget it. Before we leave, let’s meet right here. I won’t hurt you bad. I’ll let you off with a bloody nose and nothing more.”

  “Settle down. We lost control of the car when we came to the restaurant.”

  Samantha stepped forward. “He tells the truth.”

  The Kid gave her a fatherly swat on the seat. “Go to the rear with Spiffy, please.”

  Mean Man undressed her with his eyes. “You’re the girl I came to talk with. You wear a pretty gold necklace, too.”

  “She is lovely,” said a feminine voice. Its bearer swaggered out from behind one of the trees bordering the steps.

  The Kid thought, oh me, that remark translates into problems. The squawking comes from the wife of the biggest cog in the political machine, the one who jerks the filthy strings while working as an aide to the governor.

  Though as fat as a bear with a backside the size of a tobacco barn door, she had a narrow face resembling a chicken’s. While her eyes darted about the way chickens’ do, her white dress with the accessories made her look like a male Brahman breed.

  The kid turned to Swampy Joe Phillips as he stepped out also. “A cedar tree blocked my view of you. You working with these two?”

  “Oh, hell no, Kid. You ‘preciate the fact I ain’t got no better friend than you. Durn, remember the time in the Okefenokee Swamp? You yelled a big ‘gator was a cruising to my hand dangling in the water. I has a long memory.”

  “Huh, you do?” barked Mean Man. “Best you leave now ‘cause I remember things good, too.”

  “Stay where you are, Swampy Joe. My strength is at eighty percent. I’ll get stronger.” He glared into the eyes of his enemy. “Like we said, let’s settle this bad blood after dinner.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  The Kid sneered. “Now, Mrs. Clarisse Bovine, or should I say ‘Clarence Bovine?’”

  Bubbles of snickers floated from the twelve men who had gathered.

  Mean Man strode forward.

  At eye level, the Kid shook his trigger finger. “Mrs. Bovine, remind your at-the-moment king our appointment takes place after dinner, not now.”

  “Say any rude things you wish. I came here to talk to the girl. Honey, listen to Aunt Clarisse for a minute.” She placed a hand on each of Samantha’s shoulders. “Mean Man has his ways. Nevertheless, my dear, he will locate one with long spurs for you. Don’t count on the Kid. Remember, Honey. You need to sell turkey feathers. All Mean Man wants is to schedule an appointment on talk radio or something.”

  The Kid’s eyes flared. “Whoa! Samantha, explain to me about these quills.”

  Samantha’s arms plunged to her sides, and her shoulders rose. She stared at the ground.

  His bass voice lowered while he put a closed right fist on the back of his neck. “ You will.”

  Mrs. Bovine shoved her face twelve inches from the Kid’s nose. “Excuse me, please. I think Samantha and I wish to talk.”

  “Thank you,” said Samantha. “But I lack reasons to abandon him. Even if I wanted to, I find myself too far along the trail to change horses.”

  “The mistake belongs to you, my dear. All the same, Kid, I want a word in private with you.”

  They ambled to the edge of the parking lot wh
ile Spiffy and Samantha lingered around the entrance. At the perimeter, with his thumbs locked in his belt, he pivoted. As expected, she opened with the first volley.

  “Why don’t you quit this entire business?”

  “Does the old locker room incident still bother you?”

  Without troubling herself to answer, she took another shot. “Kid, stop shooting blanks and let Mean Man take over. He meets our requirements, not you.”

  “Does this little Native American girl somehow figure into Washington D.C.?”

  The Kid’s charisma, reputation, and his legion of followers made far too much distraction for her to ignore.. His wit plus his fast tongue overwhelmed her. She had to press for an advantage. “Perhaps this will teach you something. You drive and the highway patrol stops you. No matter where you hunt, the game warden interrupts. How does the picture look?”

  “Not good, but with the dirt going around about you, we can also add ‘intimidation of state employees’. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Remember— they work hard for themselves and their families. Decipher this. The three of us will cross the Dan River to hunt. In secrecy, your husband controls the governor and everything else, but he doesn’t control anything in Virginia.”

  “Good bye, Kid.” She sulked to her chauffeured limousine.

  Confidence expanded his guts. He strolled to the entrance of La Comida. From his left came a voice. “Compadre, long time since we done poached Slaughter’s place.”

  He halted. “Of all people, well I’ll be—James ‘Twenty-two Points Gunther, the worst turkey hunter in the entire United States. Been doing okay, Jim?”

  The Kid’s phone rang. He showed Jim an open palm, traffic cop style. “Gotta’ take this one.” He walked around the building and leaned against the scaffolding that surrounded a chimney under repair. He propped his left foot on a stack of new bricks.

  “Hi, Alotta, I sent word about where we were going. Why aren’t you here?”

  “We’re in the lot in a gray van, beside the night light.”

  “Betcha’ you’re taping.”

  “Right, don’t worry—I’ll turn you into a hit. We’ll be inside working in ten minutes. Listen. Can we meet again sometime soon? I mean, not about news. You know.”