Scrambled Hard-Boiled

by E.R. White, Jr.

  * * * * *

  They dumped in the back yard and surrounded me. One of them had broken off a handle to a broom, while others had removed their belts.

  “For God’s sake, what the hell is going on here?” I pleaded. “I’ve never met any you before today. You're making a horrible mistake!”

  “You mean to tell me that you never laid eyes on Zeke here, or beat him up or told those lies about him to the police?” demanded Sam.

  “As God as my witness, I didn’t do anything. I’ve never seen this man before in my life!”

  “Liar!” shouted Zeke. “Look in his wallet and see where he's from. He told you he was from around here. Bullshit. I bet his driver’s license says Charlotte.”

  I knew I was screwed and got up and tried to make a mad dash out of there but was quickly thrown to the ground. I was held down as a hand grabbed my wallet, and it was tossed to Sam, who opened it and took out my driver’ license.

  “Yep—Zeke’s right. He’s from Charlotte.”

  Sam handed his shotgun to one of the men and walked over next to me. He handed me back my wallet and told me to put it in my pocket.

  “We Baylors ain’t thieves.”

  “Now, I can—I can explain everything,” I stuttered as I sat up on my knees.

  Sam looked around for a second then looked back down at me. I just stopped and stared at him, frozen with fear as to what was to come next.

  Suddenly, he kicked me in the stomach. I doubled over in agony.

  “You bastard,” he snarled. “You lying dirty bastard. I know what your types are like. You come into our land, with your slick ways, fancy suits, Yankee charm—”

  “I ain’t no damn Yankee!” I squalled.

  Note to all non-southerners: You can call a southerner about any name in the book, but nothing will get an angry response from him quicker than calling him a Yankee, even if it means pissing off a bunch genetically challenged misfits, as you are about to see.

  For a second the other Baylors looked a bit apprehensive, for they had been told I was a Yankee and what they had planned for me was evidentially not appropriate for fellow southerners. A glimmer of hope shot through me, but it was quickly snuffed out.

  “He’s a goddamn liar!” roared Sam.

  With that brilliant bit of rhetorical sophistry to allay their fears, I saw the relief spread in their narrow faces, and I knew that I was screwed if I didn’t do something quick.

  I turned to Lucy and tried to appeal to her softer side.

  “Mrs. Baylor, I came here to help find out who murdered your sister. That’s all I wanted to do. I don’t know who this man is,” I pointed at Zeke, “but I swear I’ve never seen him before in my life. Please, all I want to do is find justice for your sister, and that’s it.”

  “Liar! Goddamn liar!” screamed Sam. “You and your fancy guns, fancy bows and arrows …”

  Bows and arrows? What the hell?

  “Damn Yankees like you come here—huntin’ our game, swimming in our creeks, askin’ us if we can play the banjo and shit, laughing at us … accusing a Baylor of being a—a Ned Beatty! Ain’t a Baylor ever been born who’s a goddamn Ned Beatty, never will be!”

  Ned Beatty? Banjos?

  And then in a flash it hit me—Deliverance. He was pissed off at the movie Deliverance! Never mind that Ned Beatty was on the receiving end in the film, Sam Baylor and his kin were madder than hell about it.

  I imagined what life must have been like for these people. The trips into town, the snickers, the teasing, humming of that damn song, Dueling Banjos, behind their backs. Finally, someone whispers the meaning of it all in their ear, followed by the fateful trip to the moving picture show, where they watch, in horror and shame, of what the world imagines them to be.

  In Sam Baylor’s warped mind, someone had to pay for this outrage, and it looked like it was going to be me.

  I looked into the man’s eyes and saw that any sense of reason or humanity had long ago fled. There was only a blind, purple rage there, and as he started to pace back and forth; a white froth of salvia could be seen forming at the edges of his mouth. He was working himself into a killing frenzy, and it suddenly occurred to me that of all the Baylor’s there, Sam Baylor was the maddest of the lot.

  Suddenly, with an incoherent shout, Sam was on me, kicking. The other men quickly joined him, and I instinctively curled up into a protective ball, trying to protect myself. A hail of kicks, belt lashes and the occasional blow of a broom handle erupted around me.

  Suddenly, Lucy was in the middle of all this, screaming for the men to stop, pushing them away from me. The beating ceased as they turned to listen to her. Thank God, maybe my plea worked.

  “Damnit Samuel Leroy Baylor! Don’t you dare kill this man in my backyard. I won’t have it!”

  I mentally thanked her for saving my life.

  “Take him out back behind the barn or somewhere, but don’t use my yard for your damn dirty work!”

  Why that no good, whoremongering assistant pimp bitch!

  Then, it hit me, a way to talk myself out of this mess. It probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a shot, cause the alternative was a slow and painful death by belts and broomstick. However, I had to act now, before the beating resumed.

  “Alright, I admit it! I'm a damn Yankee liar!” I shouted.

  This caused every one of them suddenly to freeze and look at me in wonder, except for Zeke, who obviously smelled a rat.

  “I did it! I admit it! I beat the shit out of Zeke over there,” I sneered, “and the little bastard didn’t even put up a fight, not like a real Baylor would have. And I admit I turned him into the police, but it was true what I told ‘em—your cousin Zeke is a godforsaken Sodomite!”

  Zeke started to protest, but I held up my hand and continued. The others, thank goodness, stood there and listened.

  “What do you really know about Zeke here?” I smarmily queried. “Yeah, he’s half Baylor, but he’s also half Stanley, and where I come from, the Stanleys are famous for being ‘Fancy Boys’, as we Yankees like to say.”

  I saw some doubt creep into the eyes of one or two. Just keep talking, Jay my boy, just keep talking.

  “Hell, for all you might know, Zeke might be up here, playing around with someone from town or maybe casting an eye over one of your own young’uns,” and I looked over and pointed to Sam’s and Lucy’s teenage son who was standing off to one side.

  And that’s when I saw it in the kid’s eyes. The flash of panic, the flush of shame.

  I saw my salvation there.

  “Good Lord,” I gasped in mock horror, pointing at the kid. “Oh sweet Jesus, we’re too late! He's already got to your boy, Sam!”

  The boy stood there, eyes downcast, and then he looked up, lower lip and what passed for a chin, trembling. He jerked his head back down, afraid to meet anyone’s gaze.

  I looked over at his mother. I saw the horror mixed with anger creep into her eyes.

  Sam saw what was happening and tried to calm her down.

  “Now, Lucy darlin’ we don’t know anything for sure. Let’s just wait a few seconds.”

  I saw she was ready to explode, and I groped for the words that would push her over the edge. I struggled to figure out what I should say, knowing that one misstep could backfire on me and re-ignite the beating.

  Then a mother’s love stepped in and saved me.

  “Caleb Micah Baylor, LOOK AT ME!” yelled Lucy.

  The boy plaintively looked up at his mother.

  “Mom—oh Mom…” he whimpered.

  A mom, whether her last name is Rockefeller or Baylor, has that sixth sense about her children. She can tell when they’re lying, when they’re trying to hide something or, most importantly, when they’re in pain. Lucy Baylor had looked into the agony of her son’s eyes and had seen the truth. I saw the white-hot flame of anger rise up in her face. She whipped her gaze towards Zeke.

  Now I’ve seen a lot of ugly things in my time. I’ve seen
cold, professional beatings dealt out by the Gambino crime lords of New York City. I’ve witnessed torture by the Chinese Tongs of San Francisco. I’ve seen a man decapitated in the jungles of the Philippines and one time in Las Vegas, I saw the terrible fury of two Thai transvestite hookers going at one another. But nothing—nothing—I have ever seen has matched, in terms of pure unadulterated hatred, of what I was about to witness.

  With a feral-like snarl, Lucy bounded towards Zeke, arms outstretched and hands and fingers stiff like talons. Like the harpy-bitch she truly was, she fell upon that poor bastard and plunged her fingernails, dagger like, into the soft tissue of his neck. You could see the blood well up where her nails punctured Zeke's skin with a sharp pop. They fell together onto the ground, rolling over and over in the grass and dirt.

  Sam was hollering for them to stop, but to no avail. The other Baylors looked on in stunned amazement, but made no move to stop the fight.

  Suddenly, the two stopped rolling in the dirt. Lucy sat astride the hapless man, her claws firmly embedded in his neck. Zeke could only gurgle in pain.

  Then, it happened.

  I watched as she reared her head back with only the whites of her bulging eyes showing, tendons standing out like metal bars on her neck, mouth wide open, displaying a set of yellowish teeth that had rotted to what were now exquisite, sharpened fangs. With a snap, her head flashed forward to collide into the middle of Zeke’s face with a dull thud. I heard a muted growl issue from the back of Lucy’s throat, which was immediately followed by crunching sound. I saw her head shake back and forth, like a dog ripping a piece of meat from a carcass. Suddenly, she broke free of Zeke’s head and tossed her head back in triumph. Her face was smeared with blood and gore.

  With a loud “phuffttt” she spat out something to the ground, small and bloody.

  It was Zeke Stanley’s nose.

  In the same instant that I realized what she’d done, Zeke let out a shrill shriek and, like a hemorrhaging whale, he snorted through the two new “blowholes” in the middle of his face, resulting in a red mist blossoming above his head. Then great gouts of blood began to spew out his mouth and nose, and he was gurgling and moaning in distress, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands. His face, hands and arms were soon rapidly caked with blood.

  Every living soul there was stunned by the sight, mesmerized by the incredible violence.

  Every living soul—save one.

  I’d been squirrel-trained by Twillfigger, you see. I had seen worse.

  All eyes were on the battle between Lucy and Zeke. They were gathered around the couple, looking in shock and horror at the carnage that had unfolded before them, leaving me alone and unguarded. Sam had his back to me, and I saw my chance. I swiftly got to my feet, took a couple of strides and wound up directly behind Sam. He had no idea I was there. In one swift move, I reached up and put my left arm around his throat and in one smooth motion, reached into his front right pocket, grabbed my .38 and placed it against his head.

  “Don’t even think about moving, friend,” I whispered into his ear.

  He didn’t.

  The others were completely unaware of what I’d done, being absorbed in the fight that was taking place in front of them. Lucy had now latched on to Zeke’s left ear, and was trying to chow down on it. I knew I had to get everyone’s attention, just to make sure they knew that any stupid moves on their part would result in serious damage to Sam. As Ernie taught me, if you’re going to pull a gun, let them know it and let them know you’re in charge.

  A warning shot in the air was what was needed, but one look at the pitiful sight of Zeke there on the ground, noseless, bleeding and screaming, must have triggered something in me.

  With great care—and not without some feelings of mercy—I fired my gun directly into the Zeke’s left kneecap, blowing it into pulp.

  Lucy spun off of him in a flash and Zeke immediately let go of his face and grabbed his knee, shaking with convulsions of pain. He screamed once then settled into a series of noises that sort of sounded like “ack … ack … aaaaaargh …”

  Nothing like a slug to the knee to take a man’s mind off losing his nose.

  That got everybody’s attention. It even snapped Lucy out of her berserk rage.

  I quickly placed the gun back to Sam’s head.

  “Now that I got your attention, let me tell y’all what I’m going to do. First, you,” I nodded at the man holding the shotgun at his side, “drop that to the ground, now.”

  One look at Sam was all he needed, and he dropped the shotgun.

  “Good—now I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m going to do, so there’s no mistaking my intentions. Do exactly as I say, and no one else will get hurt. Disobey me and I swear I’ll spatter Sam’s brains on the ground. Everyone understand?”

  After a second or two, everyone nodded in agreement. Everyone but Zeke, that is. He had strangely gone silent, but obviously was still alive, because I saw him quivering uncontrollably on the ground.

  Probably was just trying to catch his breath.

  “Excellent. Now Sam and I are going to walk over to my car sitting over there and get in. We’re then going to drive away. After a while, providing you don’t follow me or threaten me in any way, I’ll let Sam out, and we will go our separate ways. That will be that. Understand?”

  They nodded yes.

  I shoved the gun harder against Sam’s head.

  “Remember, if you try something stupid, or if I feel threatened in any manner, Sam here is the first to go, got it?”

  They got it.

  “Okay, Sam, let’s go to my car—and please don’t make me kill you.”

  Slowly, Sam and I made our way to my Buick, with me being careful never to turn my back to the others. We got to the driver’s side of my car, where I realized I had a problem.

  If I told Sam to open the door and slide over to the passenger side, he’d be in a position to try something when I made my way into the driver’s seat and fumble with the keys to start the car. It would only take a split second of inattention on my part to give Sam the opening he’d need to jump me and give his kin time to come in and overpower me. In the movies, the private eye always gets the suspect to sit quietly in the car, with no concern for his own safety or the awkward position it puts him in. In real life, especially when dealing with crazy bastards like the Baylors, it’s another story.

  Not to worry, I had a solution.

  I made Sam crawl into the car on his hands and knees and stick his head down into the passenger-side floorboard, with his rear end sticking up in the air on the passenger seat. Awkward position for Sam, but it made me feel a lot safer. I quickly hopped in the car, shoved my key in the ignition and started the car.

  I stuck my head out the window, for one more warning to the other Baylors.

  “Remember, if I see you trying to follow or stop me in any way, I’ll blow his brains out.”

  Now considering that I had my gun pointed at Sam’s ass, this wasn't a totally accurate threat. Indeed, a couple of the Baylors sort of looked at each other in a state of confusion, but they soon got the drift of my true meaning and said not to worry, just don’t hurt Sam.

  I pulled out of the dirt driveway and got the hell out of there.

  It took only about twenty or thirty minutes of driving over that twisting, narrow backwoods road to get to the intersection at the main highway, but it seemed like hours to me and probably even longer for Sam.

  As soon as we got there, I got out and ordered Sam out of the car. I made him stand about twenty yards from me as I got back into the Buick.

  “I ought to kill you for what you tried to do to me back there, but I’ll let it slide."

  He just stared at me.

  “Remember, I’m not the one who let that little bastard near your son, and if it wasn’t for me, he’d still be doing what he was doing.”

  He dropped his head down a moment, in apparent shame.

  I continued.

 
“My guess is you wouldn’t want folks to know what was going on up here, right under your very nose. It sure as hell wasn’t banjo lessons, if you know what I mean.”

  He looked back at me now, a beaten man.

  “Go on about your business, Yankee.” he said. “We Baylors take care of our own.”

  “We’re even, right?”

  “Even.” he said.

  And with that I drove off, tires squealing. I didn’t stop until I got all the way back to Warhill.

  I’ve never been back to that part of North Carolina. Nothing but a bunch of goddamn Ned Beattys up there, if you ask me.

  Chapter 18