Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

“Yes.”

  “I didn’t think you would know that. Except for the hair, Alotta, you probably know just about everything I know.”

  “Kid, are you aware Mr. Slaughter has given the law free run of the property?”

  The Kid massaged his lips. “I’m not. Does a connection exist between Gretchen and Wong Lee? Did some pervert kill Gretchen for sex? No doubt the killer of Mr. Lee murdered him for money. Is it possible one person committed both crimes? We’re skipping around a little here. Are you aware I added a suspect?”

  “That’s right, you said ‘just about.’ Who?”

  “Jim Gunther.”

  “He’s a good-looking, good-for-nothing, but I don’t visualize him as a killer. Yeah, met him at La Comida.”

  “What else’s bad?”

  “WROT won’t let me cover the hunt. They say it’s hopeless. They don’t want to spend money on the venture.”

  “No problem. I’ll locate another witness to come with us. Remember, we’ll share info, confidentially.”

  Their eyes locked. She grabbed his right arm while unbuttoning his shirt. “Mee is standing behind you in the bedroom door. Let’s make this occasion a threesome?”

  He turned to Mee, who was carrying a length of rope over her left shoulder and a yellow rubber duck in her right hand. She wore no clothes.

  The Kid displayed a poker face. “Why not?”

  ***

  The sun touched the horizon; he squinted into the glare all the way into sunset.

  He clipped on the television. It buzzed with an editorial concerning the incompetence of Little Archie. He snapped it off.

  Without a word, Spiffy came in and flopped down. He yawned. “Where’s everybody?”

  “Upstairs. Jim arrived. Took him up to a room. He’s watching television or something. Talk to me, Spiffy, What are you reading now?”

  “Finished my last one. You’ve got nothing for me to do, I’d like to go to Wilson to the library to get a copy of The Brothers Karamazov.”

  “Can you change your plans to learn how the criminal mind works?”

  Spiffy put his hands on the armrests to lean forward. “Sure.” He rose and walked toward the door.

  “Wait, Spiffy.”

  “Aw, yeah, Kid.”

  “I’m not through. Go to Columbia, South Carolina, to their library to find out all you can about a Mary Gretchen Thompson. I have to believe she was kidnapped in that state and buried in Virginia. Take this check for three thousand dollars. It should cover everything, including a couple of trips to a whorehouse. You run short, call me. You don’t, keep the change, but be back here by seven a.m. for a meeting on April 11th. Turkey season starts on the next day. You learn anything earthshaking, call me.”

  Spiffy left.

  The Kid rose to his feet. He paced. He thought: Make twenty or so phone calls to see if anybody knows anything about all these murders. Hmm, what did Sherlock Holmes do without a phone?

  Two hours later, he dialed Petty’s number.

  “Petty, how’ve you been?”

  “Fine. When you coming to see me?”

  “I will, but I need a favor first.”

  “What?”

  “Steal the necklace with Gretchen’s name.”

  “Oh, Kid!”

  Chapter 19

  They assembled in the game room at seven a.m.

  “Turkey season opens tomorrow at sunup. Show time.”

  “Give us the plan,” said Samantha. “We finish ten glorious days of gun mounts and peace and solitude, where the only things invading our brains is my bang bang, and Spiffy’s smack-smack. Now we crave some action.”

  Spiffy scratched his head. “But the reporters with the television cameras— except for money-short WROT— circle the streets like buzzards. They won’t leave us alone. Their pestering will keep Samantha from bagging a long beard.”

  Jim squirmed. “The Kid’s got hisself a good plan. Listen.”

  “Thank you, Jim. You forget with whom you deal? I’m the Tobacco Land Kid. Spiffy, show respect for the media. They try to earn a living at what they do best. Okay, here’s the setup. Get your stuff ready, because today at three the Wilson Plumbing Company truck pulls up and parks around back. A guy I taught to shoot owns the business. We slip into the vehicle and the driver takes us to another location. Behind an old pack house waits our four-wheel-drive red pickup with the king cab. In the truck lies a fake driver’s license.” He handed Samantha a pair of scissors and a waste paper basket. “I don’t use mirrors. Snip off this red pony tail.”

  “Sure, Kid.”

  After pruning the ponytail, she produced a crate Jennifer had purchased from a party shop, with instructions for the contents ordered by the Kid. The container held a joker with a three-cornered hat. Thanks to wheels, gears, and springs, a buffoon did a dance, which made the three-hat bells ring. Samantha removed the lid, “Here, Kid, Jennifer bought this wig and fake mustache to match the driver’s license in the driver’s door storage area, but those won’t cover the mashed-in nose and the scar on your left cheek.”

  “Samantha, I’ll say the right side is the worst to throw them off.” He burst with laughter, while Samantha, holding the container, rotated the top clockwise to jar the joker into motion.

  “Samantha, don’t you understand?”

  Her lips formed a sly smile. “What, Kid?”

  “Nothing, Smarty-Pants.”

  Samantha sent Spiffy a broad grin. “Here’s a black Stetson hat, fake eye glasses, and a mustache.”

  Next, the Kid removed a men’s long-sleeved priest’s clerical garment. He spoke in a low voice while using his eyes for detective work. “Ever been a choir boy, Jim?”

  With a hand on each shoulder, Jim took the shirt and pressed the attire to his chest for sizing. “No, ain’t been no choirboy. I’m a Protestant.”

  The Kid thought. His face nor body shows a flicker of anything—not an eye blink, not a twitch or a swallow. A good acting job? The whole scheme produced nothing about Jim.

  The Kid’s head tilted. “Wait. Turn around and lemme’ strip your jacket and then try the shirt again.”

  The Kid thought. Something’s in the right side. The pockets slant back. Tip the coat and dislodge the object.

  “See Kid? Ain’t no better.”

  At an angle, the Kid held out the windbreaker. An object fell to the floor.

  The Kid picked up the blade. “What’s this?”

  “It’sa tantō. Jap suicide knife. Got me a Jap sword, too.”

  “Interesting, Jim,” said the Kid.

  “Aw, yeah. Kid. The hat with the glasses will be enough for me. I’ll put the mustache back in the box.”

  “Yes. Now. Here’s the rest of the plan. Maintaining secrecy is paramount. Spiffy knows what he talks about. A failure to shake those media people will lead to them hounding us every step of the way. If we must, we’ll head for the huge regions, such as the George Washington National Forest. We don’t wish to hunt the area, because of Samantha’s health. Spiffy, we’ll try the small areas around Keeling, Virginia that I memorized like the back of my hand. If the weather becomes cold and rainy, we head for a motel. I’ll carry five thousand in cash. Also, should we need more, Danville has a BB&T bank. Something else — a couple of our people are spreading the word we’ll be hunting in Caswell County. Assuming this ploy works, the media will be on the wrong side of the Dan River. Afterwards, we play the role of the fox— they want find us until we bag a turkey. Remember, even these days, a great deal of backwoods lies in Virginia. Spiffy, field strip the shotguns. Place them into the largest suitcase. We’re breaking several laws, so the guns must be disguised, too.”

  “Kid,” said Samantha. “I never thought to ask. What do you consider a large turkey?

  “I got one that went twenty five. You find one bigger in the woods, you’ll appreciate huge. Unlike me, Jim, Twenty-one Points never lies. The light, the desire, the forest--with other factors--might cause the eye to play tricks. For the same rea
son, Jim is a solid person. The turkey has to exist. In any case, the locals whisper about Goliath.”

  Jim ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Thank you, Kid, for sayin’ them things. I’ll work hard fer you. You too, Spiffy. Samantha, don’t doncha worry. We’ll pull this here thing off.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Now, where doth yon mountain lie?”

  The Kid’s lips and jaw tensed. “It’s the place we spent the night in the snow.”

  Samantha wrung her hands. “You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Samantha, let me give you the whole story. About seventy yards below the ledge lies Billy Goat Rock. Three feet beyond is the several thousand acres owned by R.W. Slaughter. His nickname is Ross. The authorities have located four bodies—Ross is more than a person of interest.”

  “I don’t want to enter the area.”

  “If I say so, you will.”

  “Remember what I almost did to myself? Now you remind me about the corpses on the property. A killer or killers... No-no-no.”

  He put her in a bear hug. “Settle down.”

  “Did you do some checking?”

  “I’ve made a lot of phone calls, but nobody says anything. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. Let the authorities handle the situation.”

  Samantha nodded. “If in any way you can help, let’s forget the turkey. All those people...”

  Apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock beside the fireplace, the room fell silent.

  The Kid sucked a breath. “As long as we have a reasonable alternative, we’ll forgo the Slaughter place. You suck up the fact, young lady.”

  The kid’s cell rang in Spiffy’s pocket. With one hand he swept back his black hair; with the other, he picked up the phone. He listened, pointed to the door, and handed the phone to the Kid.

  The Kid stepped out. “Petty, what’s up?”

  “I stole the bracelet. You in Wilbanks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going by the post office in an hour. Listen. Gotcha ears on, Kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “As I left, the sheriff’s deputies showed up, asking to search the house. The nut job started following them while playing a violin. He played “Hearts and Flowers.” Keep listening. He comes to Marilyn’s. They ask him to leave. I drop by a grocery store. You guessed the answer. He stands beside the counter, staring. He makes me shiver. He doesn’t smile. He says next time he wants to tie me up in the basement.”

  “Stay away from him. I like to fight. I might pay him a visit.”

  “I won’t go back. Keep in touch.”

  Reentering the room, he fumbled with the phone. “As I said, young lady, you’ll suck it up. Now listen. Once you pass Billy Goat Rock, you go downhill. The descent to the bottom is two hundred feet. The temperature’s cooler at the base.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes. “Try last January.”

  The Kid’s jaws tightened. “No sarcasm, please. You come to a lush meadow surrounded by mature oaks. The turkey hunting’s excellent because Ross patrols the area to keep everybody off. Samantha, nobody will harm you.”

  “But we won’t hunt the acreage except as a last resort, right?”

  “Correct, we’ll try White Oak Mountain first.”

  Chapter 20

  As planned, the plumbing truck arrived at four. After twenty minutes, the group crept to the van. The plumber drove them away.

  Three hours later, they sat in a motel in Danville, Virginia, where they had escaped the media. The Kid issued a pep talk and at the conclusion, Samantha requested to rehearse more gun mounts. He refused.

  He brushed a lock of hair from her right eye, gave her a three-stroke knuckle haircut, and blew air onto her scalp. He knew the puff of air felt like spit landing.

  With wide eyes and an open mouth, she touched the spot. “Dry. Now your joke sucked.” She pummeled him with openhanded blows, while Spiffy laughed and Jim chuckled.

  He grabbed her, squeezed, and twisted. He thought, her shotgun skills approach perfection, but she fails to rock forward when she dry fires. If she shoots my 12 gauge without rocking to the front, most likely the recoil will pitch her backward.

  ***

  They left the motel at three a.m. and stopped at an all-night greasy spoon. An hour later they stood a half-mile into the woods near the bottom of the mountain.

  He placed his cupped hands around his lips. “From now on, everybody whispers. This is the first day— six more weeks remain in the season. Didja hear the noise?”

  Jim nodded.” A turkey done gobbled.”

  The Kid blinked one time. “He’s perched on a limb about four hundred yards straight down this draw. The woods has many hunters on opening day, but on this section, the place is vacant; so let’s try him.”

  He lowered his facemask, and so did the others. He whispered for Spiffy to come closer. He crept about twenty yards and leaned against a red oak tree. He began to chew on his mixture of chewing gum and garlic, making his jaw jump, which gave the mask the appearance of a bat caught in a butterfly net. The Kid chose a pebble and tossed it to hit Spiffy’s right shoulder. The rock did the trick. Spiffy stopped chomping.

  He slipped a diaphragm call on top of his tongue. The instrument left his hands free. He knew calling a turkey to the gun was one of his strengths. After moistening the frame and reeds, he sent air through to make a yelp followed by a cluck. The sound went forth as an invisible hook, which advanced to the turkey’s ears and brain to snare the turkey with attractive love thoughts.

  The Kid nudged Samantha. “Hear him swoop downward, Honey?”

  “Heard something. That him?”

  Jim chuckled. “Don’t matter. Not important. Your ears ain’t trained for the sound.”

  The Kid smiled. “Let’s try some yelps, cackles, and purrs to determine his willingness to come to us.”

  Nature sent a sassy female house wren to perch on Samantha’s gun barrel. With head and tail pointing skyward, the bird posed as if she were a beauty queen. Samantha blinked. The bird darted.

  The next gobble rang within range of the normal ear. Samantha stiffened. Realizing the waist-high brush to the front would cover his movement, the Kid patted her knee to telegraph confidence and comfort with father-daughter closeness. He called. The turkey gobbled. This pattern continued until the creature approached. He tarried below the screen, still at a hundred yards of total distance, but the bird would need to come seventy closer to give Samantha a good shot. The Kid sent a purr. The tom double-gobbled. Instead of approaching, the animal left the narrow valley to climb up a hardwood ridge, away from their position.

  The Kid’s head dropped. “Yikes, guys. This boy must own a hen or so. She’s leading him far afield. Listen— Spiffy, Jim, follow me. Samantha, stay here. We’re moving down this ridge to find out if we can call him back. This is a slow gobbling day. We get him or nothing, unless a stray tom drifts by.”

  She compressed her lips and shook her head.

  “Samantha, why No? You’ll nail a turkey, but first, listen to me.”

  “Kid, I’m scared to be alone in this big woods.”

  “Samantha, you shouldn’t be. What frightens you? You didn’t show any fear last winter on the mountain.”

  “Everything slept. Now, Kid, anything: a rabid animal, a snake, or a bad person might arrive.”

  “Oh, Samantha, think of your ancestors. I’d rather not leave Spiffy. Stop being a baby. The gun you hold—did the instrument come as a prize from a package of breakfast cereal?”

  “Nope.”

  “Use the firearm to shoot whatever alarms you.”

  “Do I even nail a human being?”

  “Samantha, tell them to stop where they stand and leave. If they refuse, put one in the very middle of the chest.”

  “Why can’t Spiffy stay with me?”

  “A big old tom might come. Remember, I’ve been calling from here. Those calls make this the best spot for a stray gobbler to appear. My intuition says the gobbling turkey won�
�t return for you to get a shot. At least one female has him in tow.”

  “Kid, I’ll stay, but suppose the man who killed those women creeps up on me?”

  “Jim, what would you make book on the killer being in these woods?”

  “No tellin’. Millions to one.”

  “Hang tough, Samantha. I want you to learn to feel safe in woods by yourself, too. We’ll return in a bit.”

  The Kid, Spiffy, and Jim drifted down the ridge. In moments, they disappeared.

  The recent rains kept the ground soft with moisture, but if the dampness had been gone, the leaves would have given off a crunchy sound. Now wet, man or beast could drift across them as quietly as a cat walking on carpet.

  Samantha sat. For fifteen minutes, her eyes swept the woods to pick up something. Movement appeared on the perimeter of the forest curtain. Believing the motion to be some large animal such as a deer or a human being, since the fleck happened at chest-high level, she shivered. With her vision, she smothered the spot. Her stomach tensed.

  Two men stepped into view, one an angular man dressed in camouflage clothing with a face composed of misarranged parts. The left ear dipped lower than the right while one eye rode higher than its counterpart did. Concerning disfigurements, these items took second place to a mouth of rotted stumps.

  His partner wore brown pants, but no shirt. He showed a smile that resembled that of a frog; the contortion stretched from one earlobe to the other, and when the lips sealed, teeth did not show. Nastiest of all, bulging beady black pupils gazed. Those dark eyes locked with Samantha’s.

  “Stay where you are. Go away.”

  The toothless one stared. “Ain’t friendly, is ya’ darlin′?”

  His amphibian-faced friend crumpled a beer can and burped as he flung the container over his shoulder. The discarded vessel dinged upon bouncing off a chair-size stone.

  “Hester, you dang fool. I bet somebody done listen to dat.”

  Both men paused for several minutes. Nothing moved in or near the forest curtain. They relaxed.

  “Don’t you worry none,” said the angular self-appointed spokesman. He approached until he struck the twenty-five yard mark, which placed him in gun range. She brought the .410-pump from her lap to the ready position.

  The man with decayed teeth grinned. “Hello dar. We′s coming over.”