Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  “Easy. I hired a detective to trail you. He stayed at a distance to keep me posted with a cell phone.”

  The Kid stuck out one arm and leaned against a tree. “Where is this private dick now?”

  “I paid him about an hour before light this morning. He left.”

  “You murdered those people. Why else would you carry a three-foot length of one-quarter inch polyester cord? This won’t stretch. The material makes the perfect strangulation tool.”

  The mild-mannered features from long ago when he hunted with the Kid appeared.

  Mean Man leaned his gun on a maple tree. “I use the rope only to tie turkey legs. Others do the same thing. Listen— let’s forget this whole issue of fighting. I shouldn’t have spooked the turkey.”

  “Good idea. I’ll find another tom for Samantha. If we—”

  In a blink, the gentleman of old submerged. The reinstatement of the maniac took place. Lunging for Spiffy, grabbing him by a shoulder, he pressed a stiletto to his throat.

  “It’s over. Release him. If you kill him, I’ll run away. The sheriff will come and lock you up, but one alternative remains.”

  “What?”

  He threw the cord, which landed on Spiffy’s shoulder. “Now, take Spiffy over to the small oak tree. Tie him. Fight me. Murder me. Finish Spiffy. Next, hunt down Samantha and Jim. Leave. You stand a good chance of lying your way out of everything. Perhaps you should do away with any more rope you have on you or might be laying around the house.”

  “Ease over here, Kid. Lay the pump gun at Spiffy’s feet. Wait— empty the shells first.”

  He tied Spiffy to the tree, seized the shotgun, placed the muzzle to the ground, and with all his might, shoved the barrel ten inches into the dirt. He pulled hard sideways to deform the equipment.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, such crude mistreatment of a fine hardware renders me speechless.”

  Mean Man brandished the stiletto. “Soon you’ll be more than speechless. You’ll be dead.”

  The Kid drew his hunting knife. He had honed the edge. The blade would cut through a piece of notebook paper.

  With a stiletto, Mean Man counted on a stab for victory.

  They faced each other. The Kid brought his knife to eye level, a foot from his right cheek.

  “Take him, Chameleon!” yelled Spiffy.

  Mean Man spun one hundred and eighty degrees. He’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. The Kid struck. The steel entered, severing the right jugular. Blood spurted.

  He dropped the stiletto and covered the wound with his palm, trying to staunch the red tide, but to no avail. Fighting terror, he slammed his left hand over the right.

  The Kid slashed the other jugular. A ruby waterfall flooded him from the neck down. Panicking, he stretched forth his bloody hands to attack, but the Kid pushed him down. He rose and fell. Struggling to his knees, enduring a moment, flopping forward, he died in minutes from shock.

  His eyes lay still. His tongue protruded. A bluebottle fly buzzed, landed, and strolled on his bald scalp. Another alighted. Good news travels fast.

  The Kid ran to untie Spiffy. He rubbed his rope-sore wrists, flexed his shoulders, shivered, stroked his brow, slumped forward on one knee, and vomited.

  After dropping beside Spiffy, the Kid smiled. “Are you able to hold together?”

  “He never got his soul right, did he?” He spat three times, wiped his mouth with a balled fist, and swabbed the hand on his shirt. He puked again. “Oh, Kid.” This time he croaked nothing. Staring at the sun, he trembled. “His soul? How...”

  “A real mess here,” said the Kid. “Let’s move. Will you ever mention anything about this?”

  “Tell what?”

  “Gotcha.”

  With a crack, a projectile struck and shattered bark on a hickory tree. The Kid sprinted to retrieve the object.

  “What’s this?” said the Kid. He examined the item, a ball bearing with a card attached. “This must be from the Chameleon. Oh, yes, the back says, ‘I note the act of public service. Remember his weapon. His car’s old. I’ll short-wire the vehicle and ditch it.’”

  “Spiffy, my gosh, how could we forget the stiletto?”

  Spiffy sprung to his feet. Sprinting to the spot, grabbing the dagger, vomiting, he gulped air before thrusting the point into Mean Man’s back “Where can we put the body?”

  “The basement of the ordering pit,” said the Kid.

  In his college days, the Kid had worked in ordering pits. He remembered the farmers used the two-story buildings to increase moisture in tobacco. To bring into order meant to take dry heat-cured leaves, which would shatter when handled, and put the foliage into the cellar tied to sticks where the leaves absorbed water from the damp air. This makes the material flexible to work into bunches ready for market. Once the tobacco comes into order, they hand pass the sticks through a trap door in the floor to the upstairs workers, who remove the leaves from the sticks and tie the vegetation into bundles.

  They sprinted the fifty feet to the entrance.

  The Kid knew how heart pine resisted rot. A forgotten Virginia craftsperson had labored well in hanging the door, and the roof sported a two-foot overhang which protected the hinges and nails from rain. At a later date, someone had attached a fixed staple hasp, secured with a case-hardened lock, making an entry available only to a strong person with the correct tools.

  The Kid shook his head. “We can’t bust through. Even if possible, the damage would draw attention. The structure is heart pine. I’ll bet the lock is to keep kids out. Check in back.”

  After two minutes, Spiffy’s head stuck around the corner. He grinned like a mule with a mouth full of briars. With his fingers, he summoned the Kid. “Look.”

  The Kid’s lips parted and his jaw dangled. “Someone knocked a hole to crawl down.”

  “And found no treasure and crawled out,” said Spiffy.

  Laughing, the Kid rubbed his hands together. “This is where the body goes. The stones bumped inside will fit into the opening. They rejected these in the pile to the left. Hmm, bet they brought the load with mules and a cart.”

  In he went, with fury, and boosted rocks to the opening. Spiffy made a pile. After the last stone clicked as it hit the stack, Spiffy dug a heel into the ground on each side of the cavity. Positioning himself into the hollow, locking hands to wrist, Spiffy lugged him to daylight. Five minutes later, they pulled on a leg of the three-hundred pound corpse. Halfway, Spiffy stopped, leaned over, and placed his palms on his knees. His stomach shuddered. With ruckus, he dry heaved. He spat and his nose wrinkled. “Aw, what a stink! Blood, sweat, urine, and the load in his pants—yeah, that’s the worst.”

  The Kid grinned at Spiffy. “Reach down—don’t be a wussie.”

  “For you, Kid.”

  They reached the opening.

  Thousands of flies buzzed. With a blue background, four turkey buzzards, seeking carrion by their sense of smell ascended and descended, curved and circled. The Kid pointed. “Those poor devils don’t understand we’re gonna cheat ‘em, big time. Okay, push his feet together to line him up with the cavity.”

  The Kid sailed into the pit and, reaching back, he grabbed the cooling ankles; outside, Spiffy lifted the shoulders. Together they moved the corpse forward. On the way in, the top of the entrance stripped the stiletto from Mean Man’s back. With a thump, he crashed to the bottom. The flies boiled in excitement.

  The Kid threw the blade and the rocks out. Spiffy grabbed him under the arms and assisted his exit. With no pause, they began replacing stones. The first consumed a few minutes but, similar to a jigsaw puzzle, the pace increased with the disappearance of pieces. Within one hour, with a final scratch and click, the Kid slid the last rock into place.

  Spiffy ran to the brook and put his lips into the stream. He slurped and drank faster than a horse. They washed the blood from their hands, and clothes. When they finished, the Kid sucked a breath and tossed the stiletto into the channel.

 
They ran.

  Spiffy regained his color.

  They approached the pickup. The Kid thought: Something’s not right. She sits, leaning against a tire, in a ball, with her cheeks near her knees.

  “Talk to me, Jim,” said the Kid.

  “She wouldn’t let me tote her or hold her arm. She fell in.”

  The Kid pulled her to her feet. He pressed her to the truck. His right hand moved to the back of her neck as he forced her face into his chest. “Talk to me, Samantha.”

  “Ki, Kid. You-you smell worse than a go-goat.”

  “The sweat with an adrenaline rush or something, I don’t know. Spiffy, here’s the truck keys. Bring her dry clothes. Get them to me. Do this, but turn your back to us. Jim, find some fuel for a fire.”

  Jim sprinted into the woods. Spiffy responded. The Kid drew his blade to cut off her wet clothes. He thought. Thank goodness, I rinsed my knife.

  He wrapped his body around hers to hide her nudity as well as to provide heat. After removing her garments, he ensured the gold necklace rested around her neck.

  “Spiffy, find my overcoat.”

  After bringing her clothes and the Kid’s coat, with his stomach churning, straight to the truck he went, where he positioned his face down on the hood. Using his forearms, he covered his scalp.

  The coat failed to stem the shivering. He thought: She’s queasy. Don’t take the coat off now. Dress her after she warms a little. Turn her around. Lower her to the ground. Let her rest on her hands and knees. Swing your right arm under her stomach for support— hold her head with the left hand. Pull her to you. Tighten the grip. That’s a tidal wave of nausea engulfing her now.

  Her eyes bulged. “Oh, Kid. Oh, Kid.”

  She banged out two chest-rattling retches. Her lungs sucked in air. An inner chill swept her. Her stomach seized. She pressed her palms to her temples. “My head.” With a croak, most of her breakfast spewed on the ground. He held her. His right arm curled around her waist with the hand supporting the abdomen, his palm upon her forehead to lend support. With another croak, she vomited the remainder of her meal. The next heave produced a green fluid. The area stunk. She spat three times with a “thu” sound. “Oh, Kid! Oh, Kid!” The Kid prevented her from falling face down. Something from behind popped. A boot came down beside him. The quarter-inch gap between leather and pant cuff revealed black skin. The Chameleon bent over, placed a light silver hand warmer on the leaves. The device operated on lighter fluid. He added his business card with a thermos bottle. With his fingers, he stroked the Kid’s back. Like magic, the Chameleon disappeared.

  Jim returned. He began a fire.

  “Spiffy, right now! Get Ervin on the cell!”

  “How do I look?” said Samantha.

  “The same as always— you possess the air of a Native American princess.”

  “Kid, you lie like whale doo doo on the bottom of the ocean. Now tell the truth, Kid. I love you. Besides, my character can absorb punishment.”

  “Your eyes pull back into the skull. The pallor of the skin gives you the appearance of a corpse.”

  “Not cool, Kid, not smooth either. I feel better when you fib. Kid, my train pulls into the station.”

  Without pause, the Kid picked her up, carried her beside the truck, and plopped her in the normal sitting position. “Now hold on, Miss. What’s in front of you? Tell me.”

  “The usual—the forest, bushes, songbirds, all sorts of stuff.”

  “Correct, but do you visualize a turkey flopping with a load of number four shot from your pump shotgun?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good, because the train departs without you until you view a big old red, white, and blue head of a tom with the iridescent black feathers flopping in the leaves. With imagination, picture a locomotive, with a conductor getting off. Now stick up your hand. Wave good-bye to the bastard. Fine. Young woman, we will not allow you to let yourself, me, Spiffy, or Jim down. Reach inside. Get a grip on those guts. Hang on.”

  “Kid.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t, don’t curse anymore.”

  “Okay. We make a deal. You don’t die, I improve my speech. Take a drink of the Chameleon’s best. No need for me to sample the liquid— we can trust him.”

  She drank. “Kid, the Chameleon makes great hot chocolate. Now we learn something else about him.”

  The beverage stayed down.

  She fainted.

  She awoke. “That icy water must have broken my body’s strength to fight. The cancer has caught up with me.” Some color returned. She smiled. “You killed Mean Man, right?”

  “Naw, the coward walked away.”

  “Nope, you cooled him. You came back too clean and smooth. I believe I understand why your shirt cuffs are wet. I say he rides the one I missed.”

  “Samantha, the ride you passed up goes the wrong way for him, perhaps. Now, Sweetheart, relax. Knowing Ervin as I do, an ambulance from the Triangle Regional Hospital will arrive soon. Remember, three weeks remain before the turkey season ends.”

  Chapter 22

  For fifteen days, she floated back and forth between reality and dreamland. The doctors traveled the distance. For the first time, she agreed to chemo, blood transfusions, along with a host of medicines. She demonstrated steel. She fought. She rallied. On May 12th., she sent for him.

  ***

  The doctor smiled as he administered a sedative to Samantha. “Mr. Hendricks, you’re the one they refer to as the Tobacco Land Kid, correct?”

  “Yes Sir, call me Kid.”

  Spiffy appeared at the door. The Kid waved him in.

  The physician looked into Samantha’s eyes. “Relax, you’ll be asleep soon. “He faced the Kid. “Nice to meet you.”

  Her eyelids flickered. They closed. She slept.

  The general practitioner left.

  Due to Samantha’s health and mounting financial problems for her dad and the Kid, Elizabeth returned from practicing law in New York. She tiptoed in. Spiffy gave her his seat. The Kid nodded and smiled.

  After a second knock, Jim entered.

  The Kid caught his eye. “Where you been, Jim?”

  “Catchin’ up on a little sleep.”

  Elizabeth lowered her chin and stroked her lips. “Maybe you better let me lead off.”

  The Kid’s eyes locked with Elizabeth’s. “Proceed, beautiful daughter with the blond hair.”

  She sucked a breath. “Give me the total sum of your assets.”

  “Hmm, above fifteen million.”

  “Oh, Dad, hold on. Steady now. The bets exceed something like twenty million.”

  He shrugged. “So what?” As he spoke, Warren entered with his sons.

  Elizabeth rubbed her neck. “What’s his name? The one who got you into this mess.”

  Jim leaned forward. “Billy Forbes.”

  Elizabeth smirked. “Yes, and you’re Jim, the ladies’ man I’ve heard about.”

  “Thank you, Miss.”

  Elizabeth eyes swiveled. “Anyway, Mr. Forbes advises these people to hire lawyers so they will get a pro-rated share. In addition, the wagering continues until the final seconds of the turkey hunting season, which draws to a close at sundown Saturday.”

  “Elizabeth, you better check an almanac to find out the closing time so we won’t lose any money.”

  “Dad, you’re ruined. This makes you a laughingstock.” Elizabeth paused. She took a breath. “Kid, even with all the consequences, you belong to us. Our blood is the same. Who else but the Tobacco Land Kid would perform the task you did for a sick girl?”

  Warren rose. He motioned for him to follow. In the hall, he stared. “What can I say? The money.”

  “Warren, more than ever, will you trust me?”

  “With my daughter and anything else, including my life.”

  “Leave here. Don’t come back. No matter what, do not communicate with the media or anybody. Go into seclusion until Saturday night.”

  Chapter 23

&n
bsp; “Today’s Friday. Talk to me, Samantha,” said the Kid.

  “When the doctors and the nurses aren’t here, I walk some. I can do three pushups. Everything’s cool, Kid. Let’s go hunting. The doc is a smooth hunk, but he says I can’t leave until Monday. Break me out.”

  “Okay, business comes first. Spiffy, you remember we left in such a hurry when Samantha got sick, we ran over my shotgun.” He thought. Spiffy’ll catch the lie.

  “Aw, yeah Kid, now you require a new one.”

  “Right, go to Jasper Harper’s Gun Shop. Charge one to me. Pick up four or five suits of spring camo clothing, different sizes. Don’t forget the masks, gloves, the works.”

  “Aw, yeah. Elizabeth didn’t get around to telling you all the facts.”

  “What?”

  “When you left the room with Warren, we heard Elizabeth say to Ervin your credit is gone. The bank won’t cash any checks. She said the financial institutions believe you’re insolvent. That’s a direct quotation.”

  “Okay, Spiffy— find Jennifer. Ask her to open the family safe. The box contains twenty thousand dollars. Tell her to hand you five. Pay cash for the gun. Samantha, your shotgun received a thorough soaking. Don’t worry. The pump still shoots. Now, listen to the rest of the strategy. First, we make sure. Ervin has no affiliation with the hospital. He just rode with you in the ambulance. Correct?”

  “He comes now as a visitor,” said Samantha.

  “Spiffy, here’s the fun part. Friday night you, along with Jim, visit. Down the hall on the right is a room the interns use to dress. Jimmying the lock will pose no problem— it has a mechanism which allows the movement of the catch to the back. Use any stiff item such as a credit card. Wear this intern’s badge I stole from the nurses’ desk. Steal the essential clothes. Take a wheel chair to her room.” He reached under his coat and pulled out several “Out of Order” signs. He handed the posters to Spiffy. “Put these on the passenger elevators, use the one marked ‘freight.’ Now, get this. You and Jim walk fast. Don’t answer anybody’s questions. No garlic. Jim, if there’s a problem with a woman, sweet talk her.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I disappear,” said Samantha. “Not a soul knows we go hunting. Nobody follows us into the woods.”

  “Samantha, Spiffy, Jim, do you have questions so far?” Excluding Jim, they kept eye contact. “I’ll mislead the press by calling some of them together Friday night at a restaurant to tell them Samantha hovers near death. I’ll fake grief. Look for me to arrive at the hospital at one a.m. Saturday morning, ground level, at the exit to the freight elevator.”