Everybody blushed then (except Sue Ann, of course) and Wheat asked me what was going on.
I said, “We’re going to help our friends get out of town.”
Surprisingly, Wheat understood at once. “Good,” he said. “How?”
“I’ll explain later. For right now, just do what I tell you, and trust me.”
“Sure, Kitch. I suppose I better be getting my shoes back on, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I said, and I took off my clothes and handed them to Sue Ann.
Chapter 36
“My mom’ll kill me,” Wheat said.
We were both crouched in the bushes at the edge of the park, a few feet away from the main street and the crowd of people who were still enthusiastically celebrating Founder’s Day. Right now there was a lull while the rock band left the stage (that is, the platform truck) and the country western band took over; the two bands had been alternating since late this afternoon. The country western band was getting its guitars slung around its necks and what not, and the pudgy, bald Mayor of Wynning was standing at the microphone announcing the winners of various events of the day, including the watermelon-eating contest, in which Sue Ann’s police chief Uncle Phil had come in second. I could see two of the reporters were still with us, the one from the Port City Journal and the one from the Des Moines Register, too. Both of them had their flash cameras out and were taking pictures of things, the Mayor at the moment; both of them seemed thoroughly sloshed on the nickel beer the local bar was still dispensing. There were still a lot of people here, in fact I’d guess just about everybody had stayed the duration: when the rock band was playing, the adults would stand along the sidelines (and sit, as many of them had brought lounge chairs along) and watch the kids dance; and when the country western band was playing, the kids would disappear off into the park and find a tree (or a bandshell) to neck under. A lot of the people were munching on tacos or snow cones or cotton candy, or drinking pop or the nickel beer. Everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves. What I’m saying is, Founder’s Day gave no signs of letting up. It could go on this way till midnight. Tomorrow.
Wheat and I crouched in the bushes and took all this in. Did I mention we were naked?
We were naked.
Standing over in the crowd, leaning against the stolen Mustang, slurping good-naturedly at nickel beer, doing their best to look inconspicuous and not doing a bad job of it, were Elam and Hopp. Elam was watching the bushes, as I’d told him to. I stuck my head out a ways. A little ways. Elam nodded that he’d seen me and I stuck my head back in.
“My mom’ll kill me, Kitch,” Wheat said again.
“She didn’t kill you last time.”
“Almost.”
“We got no choice, Wheat. You think I like this idea?”
“You think I want to go back to jail, Kitch?”
“You didn’t seem to mind the first time.”
“At least explain why we’re doing this.”
The two Highway Patrolmen were leaning against their car, looking bored. One of them was eating a grape snow cone. The other was slouched, arms folded, half-asleep.
“No time to explain, Wheat,” I said. “Let’s go.”
And two naked birds, with nothing in hand, emerged from the bush.
Running.
Chapter 37
I took the lead.
This time I wasn’t covering myself. It wasn’t that I’d gotten over my initial shyness: there were people to push through. We literally had to shove our way through the crowd to be able to run in front of the platform truck where the Mayor was announcing the winners of the bake-off.
It wasn’t as bad as coming through those doors and unexpectedly bumping into a wedding party assembled for a picture taking. No, this time Wheat and I were ready for the throng, and neither one of us fell down. We did get our pictures taken again, though, as both drunken reporters managed to snap their flash cameras and catch us as we streaked by.
I caught a glimpse of a Highway Patrolman dropping a snow cone to the pavement as we passed, cutting within three feet of the patrol car. I heard squeals of laughter and horror and even some scattered applause as we cut around the platform truck and skirted the saw-horse blocking off the main street from where it turned into the highway out of town, which is where we headed.
I heard Wheat coming up from behind me, and then he was edging up on me, and we were like a couple of relay runners who forgot to bring along a baton to pass. There was no sound, except for our feet on the blacktop road, and our breathing. It wasn’t dark out at all, the moon was bathing us and the road in a milky glow. We were running like graceful animals, side by side, in perfect precision. We were running fast, hard, but easily, too, like conditioned athletes.
We were beautiful.
It was so different this time. I felt no sense of panic, or even of danger. I felt free. Naked and running and free, my feet padding along the road, cornfields gliding by on either side of me, the moon coasting along above.
I looked over at Wheat, not breaking stride.
He was grinning.
I grinned back at him, and we stepped up the pace a little. By that time we’d gone a good half mile.
By that time the siren had started up, and the Highway Patrol car was in pursuit.
A quarter mile later they caught us.
The Highway Patrolman who hours earlier had reminded me of Shaker Saltz grabbed me by the arm. The other patrolman grabbed Wheat’s arm, and both of them solemnly shoved us in back and drove us wordlessly back into Wynning.
We were greeted with cheers and applause. There were a few sour faces in the crowd, but not many. The Mayor looked confused, but I saw Uncle Phil, who was grinning ear to ear, and then saw him lean over and begin whispering in the Mayor’s ear, and the Mayor began to nod. Most of the townspeople were too high on nickel beer and tacos and snow cones and cotton candy and pop to be mad at us. Sue Ann came over to where the patrol car had pulled up and blew me a kiss through the window. She had my clothes under her arm.
It pleased me to come back to such a warm reception. But it pleased me even more to come back and see that empty space along the curb in front of the bank.
Chapter 38
Nobody pressed any charges. Sue Ann’s uncle convinced the Mayor that Wheat and me streaking was a positive thing for Wynning, that it would mean just that much more publicity for the Centennial Celebration.
Which was exactly right. The Des Moines Register guy’s picture came out over-exposed, but the Port City Journal photographer got a good clear shot of us, which he sold to People magazine, who did an article on us, which stated that we had streaked at Wynning to protest our going to jail for the other time we streaked. I told them that, and it was a lie. I admit it.
By now I’m sure you understand why we streaked. First off it gave Wheat and me a reason for being in Wynning. Sue Ann’s uncle, seeing me there, assumed I had come to streak, and I couldn’t let him down, without making him suspicious. And, of course, streaking we drew away the highway patrol and enabled Elam and Hopp to sneak out of Wynning by the back door.
And in case you’re wondering how I convinced Elam to go along with leaving the money behind, I. simply pointed out that a thorough investigation of the bank robbery (and with the money taken, the investigation would be far more thorough than if not) would have had to include an investigation of Wheat and me and why we were in Wynning, and from Wheat and me to our DeKalb County Jail bunkmates Elam and Hopp would be no great jump.
But we never were linked to the robbery. If you can even call it a robbery: after all, no money was taken. And I wouldn’t have written this book if my lawyer hadn’t advised me that no legal action was likely to be taken against me.
Sue Ann’s father will be finding out the truth for the first time when he reads this. I expect his reaction to be negative. He’s a nice man, but he’s bound to be unhappy about being bound for fifteen some hours in that bank.
Sue Ann I did tell that truth to, an
d right away. She found it all very exciting, and didn’t feel I’d taken advantage of her in the least. Otherwise we probably wouldn’t be married and living together in Iowa City right now. I am going to grad school, in business, and her father is helping me through, though he may cut me off when he reads this book.
I also told the truth to my father, who at first was furious with me, for all kinds of reasons; but then I reminded him he was a minister and said, “Come on, Dad... all I did was turn the other cheek,” and he started laughing and forgave me. My mother gave in (and stopped crying) when she saw me on The Mike Douglas Show. If Mike Douglas wasn’t ashamed of me, well, then, she wasn’t ashamed of me, either.
Of course Wheaty has done much better on the talk show circuit than I have. We did several of them together (we did The Tomorrow Show with the guy who streaked the Academy Awards) and then they started asking Wheaty alone. Johnny Carson has had Wheaty on six times, one of which was when Johnny himself was there. Wheat’s living in Hollywood, with the Founder’s Day Queen.
Wheaty and I are a corporation, as you may have read. We each get half of each other’s project. I get half of his comedy album, and he gets half of this book. Wheat and I are still the best of friends, contrary to what you may have read in the National Enquirer.
Now comes the hard part. Ending the story. My agent wanted me to call in a ghost writer to help on this book, primarily because he wanted to have the manuscript in about two weeks, before the streaking fad became ancient history, but I insisted on doing it all myself, and not trying to just rush through and cash in on a fad.
But I really do wish I could have a professional writer’s help right now, because the story is over, and I don’t know what to do to get off stage.
Sue Ann is standing behind me, as I sit here typing this, and she’s impatient for me to finish.
She doesn’t have any clothes on.
Which is the moral of this story, I guess: taking your clothes off can be very rewarding, if you play your cards right.
Public Servant
I felt great, my heart was pounding, but I should have slugged her harder. Or killed her, one of the two. I was hardly out the window and onto the lawn when she woke up and started in screaming her head off.
“Shut up, you bitch...” My voice hissed through my teeth like air from a punctured tire. “I’ll hit you again, Goddamnit, shut the fuck up.”
But it was too late.
Too late to climb back in and shut her up and too late to get away. I moved past the bushes along the side of the house and went back to my car in the alley. I could hear voices only a block or so away, so I had to work fast. I pulled the tactic I’d thought about a few times but never used. I reached in the back seat and grabbed my holstered gun, blue shirt with badge, and cap. Put them on faster than hell. Then I reached around into the front seat and flipped on the radio and grabbed off the mike and spoke into it.
“Ralph, hello Ralph, this is Harry.”
His voice came back tinny over the cheap squawkbox speakers. “What’s the trouble, officer?”
The mayor must have been in the station or Ralph wouldn’t have called me “officer.” Ralph was the chief but we didn’t have many formalities, not in a town of a few thousand.
“Look, Ralph, I think the raper’s hit again. There’s a woman screaming and I’m heading over to look into it. Okay, Ralph?”
He forgot the newfound formality fast. “Jesus H. Christ, another rape! Damn it, damn. Any sign of the bastard?”
“Ralph, I’ll shoot the damn bull with you some other time, okay? I’m going over and see what the hell’s going on, you don’t mind.”
“I better send somebody over to help you.”
“Good idea.”
“Frank’s hanging around the building somewhere. He’s off duty, but he’s the only one here so I’ll send him.”
“We’re going to get this guy, Ralph.”
“Damn right we will, Harry.”
I clicked the mike off and put it back on the radio and headed for the house. Things’d been happening fast. Almost forgot to zip my fly.
She was still screaming, so I didn’t go in. Besides, there was a crowd of people in bathrobes and dressing gowns and such milling around, and I had to keep them cleared away as best I could till Frank got there to lend a hand.
When Frank finally did show, I told him to go in and do the questioning. An ambulance, Frank said, was on the way. I stood outside and worked at moving the funseekers away.
After a while the ambulance pulled up and I went inside and helped Frank and some guy from the hospital ease the bitch onto a stretcher and out the door and into the back of the ambulance. She looked right at me once and didn’t bat an eye. The ambulance tore away and Frank stood there looking after it, shaking his head.
“Damn that bastard anyway, Harry, that damn bastard’s going to get his, I swear.”
“Same guy, suppose?”
“Sure as hell is. Same as always. Woman at home alone, her husband on the night shift or off on a National Guard stint or something of the like. The son of a bitch jimmies open a window and attacks her in her sleep, then knocks hell out of her.”
“Have a cigarette, Frank.”
Frank was in civvies, a T-shirt and white jeans as a matter of fact, and he stood there looking toward where the ambulance’d been, rubbing his hand over the place on his sandy crewcut where it was thinning. He said “Thanks” when I handed him the cigarette and lit it off his own lighter.
“You ain’t letting this thing get you, are you, Frank?”
“Guess maybe I am. Jesus, let me tell you, it’s enough to scare hell out of a married man. Christ, I mean you, you aren’t married, you can’t understand just how bad it is. But me, hell. A young wife. A kid in a crib. Me gone nights a lot. Scares the crap right out of me, a nut like this loose.”
“Sure, Frank,” I said. “I can see what you mean. I mean, I ain’t married or anything, but I can see what you mean.”
Frank rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Hell, Harry, how do you figure him? A psycho, sure, but how do you figure him?”
I smiled. “How do you figure a psycho?”
“I don’t know. I honest to God don’t know. But he gets his jollies making people hurt, I can see that plain enough. He always slugs hell out of the women, after he’s had ’em. Didn’t beat this as bad as the others, though, did you notice? Must be getting careless or something. Getting used to getting away with it. I mean, shit, we make it easy enough for him with our Mickey Mouse force.”
“We’re doing our best, Frank, ain’t we?”
“Yeah. Our best. Dedicated public servants. Yeah.”
He arched the hardly smoked cigarette out into the street.
“He’ll probably be more careful next time, you know,” I said.
“No next time about it,” he said, “not if I can help it.”
“Know what you mean, Frank, I mean wouldn’t you just like to get this bastard down and kick the hell out of him?”
Seemed like Frank’s eyes were almost glowing. “That would be sweet. That sure as Christ would be sweet.”
I patted his shoulder. “Well, we’ll get him, Frank, don’t you worry. I mean, after all, you figure him a nut, how long can a nut last?”
“Oh, but a damn smart nut, remember. There’s never a fingerprint or clue of any kind around.”
I checked my watch. “I wonder what’s keeping Ollie with that damn Boy Scout crime lab of his? He ought to be here by now.”
Frank shrugged. “Probably so used to this he’s finishing the Late Show or something before he comes over. Besides, what’s the use? That nut’s a thinker, he never leaves anything to trace him. Anyway, nothing a small-scale set-up like we got could ever pick up on.”
I lit myself a smoke. “But like you said, he’s getting more careless. Had so much fun raping this one he didn’t slug her as hard as he should’ve. Maybe this time he slipped up.”
“Maybe you�
��re right, Harry. Maybe old Ollie’ll find something this time around.”
“Here, Frank, have another smoke.” I shook one out of the pack and fired him up off my lighter. “Stay out here and relax, I’ll go back in, and make sure none of the neighbors messed anything up before we got here.”
Frank nodded. I went back in and looked around. Wiped off the windowsill with my handkerchief, a few other things, too. Had to make sure I wasn’t getting too damn careless.
When I was on night duty I’d go to bed around nine o’clock in the morning and sleep till six or seven. Then I’d go over to the Seaside Motel to see Molly, and sometimes sponge a meal off her. Molly was sort of my girl. She thought she was, at least. She ran the Seaside, which is right by the lake. Her old man, who built the place (both him and the old lady kicked off in an auto wreck five, six years back), would’ve called it the Lakeside instead of the Seaside, only somebody else on the other side of town thought of it first. And the other motel wasn’t even on the damn lake, ain’t that the shits.
The “No Vacancy” sign wasn’t on because the Seaside’s whole neon system’d blown a few months before. But a wooden sign hung in the window of the office saying no dice to any travelers. Not that many stopped, only the regular round of salesmen who filled the Seaside’s seven dumpy little cabins during the week and the teenagers and college kids who used ’em on weekends.
The door was locked but I had a key. I went on in to Molly’s living quarters beyond the office. She wasn’t around. Probably down the hill by the lake.
The night air was chilly, though it was summer, high summer. Of course it’s always cool on the lake, nights. I don’t like the lake much. It’s pretty, like a picture in a travel book, with the neon reflected on the rippling water and all that sort of shit. I’m not much for pretty things, except for pretty things like Molly. Or most any woman.
Shoot The Moon (and more) Page 13