by Phil Swann
“Very funny,” I replied.
Luther got up from his chair, and I followed suit. “Betsy’s out on a liquor run. When she gets back, she’ll need a hand unloading the truck. After that, maybe I can find something else for you to do. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds great. I’ll go talk to Eighty-Eight about sitting in tonight.”
“Trip, you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Luther, and I’m going to be even better in a few days once all this nonsense is behind me.”
Luther patted me on the arm and sat back down behind his desk.
I went back into the club, but not before returning the bag of frozen vegetables to the freezer. Pete and Ardith had finished their work and left, so I slid into a booth and waited for Eighty-Eight to finish his rehearsal with the band. This gave me an opportunity to put my mind on another problem that, despite being trivial in the grand scheme of things, was still something I needed to address. Fat Tony.
If my math was correct, I had less than twelve hours before Vinnie and Sal were going to come looking for me. I wasn’t concerned they’d actually do me in, because if they did that, Fat Tony would never get his money. However, they were certainly capable of making life very, very painful. Something I really, really wanted to avoid if at all possible. As I saw it, I had two options. I could call Fat Tony, beg for an extension, and offer to pay him double the interest on the ninety percent interest I was already paying him. I could even throw in some show tickets and dinner for good measure. It sounded like a splendid deal to me, but I’m not Fat Tony. In Fat Tony’s world, a deal’s a deal, and as he says, “Trip, I have a reputation to uphold.” Meaning, such a compromise is a sign of weakness and a terrible precedence to set.
My other option was to call around to all my friends and raise the money, a little here and a little there. The problem with that was I didn’t relish the idea of having my financial situation made so public among the people closest to me, especially those at work. It was bad enough Wheels knew about it. Besides, most of my friends were musicians and not rolling in dough themselves—with the possible exception of Priscilla, the stripper at Kitty’s Cats, who was probably better off than all of us put together. A sad commentary on how musicians are respected, if you ask me. There was, of course, Stanley, but I knew not to even try. He set a standard long ago for neither a borrower nor a lender be. And as far as asking Luther for the money? No, I don’t ask Luther for money. Period. Besides, he’d ask what the money was for, and though I don’t lie to Luther, that doesn’t mean I tell him everything.
I sat in the booth and went over my options for at least twenty more minutes, maybe a full half hour. Finally, I resigned myself to the fact there were no good options and I’d have to resort to asking my friends for the money. It was distasteful, but I decided a cleverly composed sob story might lessen the embarrassment. Which meant I’d have to give that some thought too.
Eighty-Eight ended his rehearsal, so I slid out of the booth and went up to the stage. All the boys greeted me warmly, and I reciprocated. None of them mentioned the bruise on my neck, either out of politeness, or more likely because it was still too early for a proper musician to be conscious enough to notice such a small thing. Eighty-Eight put the final touches on his new arrangement before looking up from his piano. I swear the old fella’s smile could light up Broadway.
“Hey, Trip. How you doing on this beautiful day?”
“Groovy, Eddie. Nothing but groovy.”
“I can dig that, man.”
“I love the new chart. It’s really going to swing.”
“Thank you kindly, thank you kindly. The cats were really laying into it, weren’t they? That bass line nearly killed old Vernon, though,” he said intentionally louder. “But he stepped up and put it down. I guess I better do the song tonight before he revolts.”
Vernon, the bassist, heard him as was Eighty-Eight’s intent. He shook his head and exited through the front door along with Reeds and Silas. I’m sure they heard Eighty-Eight’s howl all the way into the parking lot. I joined in before realizing a robust laugh wasn’t the best thing for a swollen neck.
“Hey, Eddie, I’m going to be around the club tonight. Okay if I sit in?”
“Sure, daddy-o. You know you’re always welcome. Come on up and blow to your heart’s content. I’ll give you a real fine introduction like before. It’ll be righteous, a real love thing. You should do that Dizzy number, people dig that.”
“I’ll be happy to.”
The crash sounded like someone had set off a bomb in the kitchen.
Eighty-Eight was so startled he knocked the staff paper off his piano. I turned just as Luther burst through the swinging kitchen doors. His eyes were red, face drawn, and he looked like he’d aged fifty years.
“They have Betsy,” he yelled. “They have my little girl.”
He fell into a chair. Both Eighty-Eight and I ran to him.
“What?” I yelled myself. “Who has Betsy? What are you talking about?”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Eighty-Eight sat down next to him. “Luther, who has Betsy?”
Luther took a deep breath and tried to gather himself. “I don’t know. I just got a call. The man on the phone told me they had Betsy, and they were going to kill her unless I did what they said.”
“What do they want you to do?” I asked.
“They said the instructions were in the envelope.”
“What envelope?”
“I don’t know, that’s all he said. Then he hung up.”
I scanned the bar for an envelope before it came to me. I raced to the front door and opened it. A small mailbox hung on the wall just before you entered the club. I lifted the metal flap, saw a single white envelope, and pulled it out. My heart sank when I read the words typed on it: For Trip Callaway.
I went back inside, opened the envelope, and took out the paper.
“What’s it say?” Luther wailed.
It was like I was being strangled again. All the air rushed from my lungs. I collapsed into the chair next to Luther.
“What’s it say, Trip?” Eighty-Eight asked as calmly as he could.
I read it aloud: “Mr. Callaway, we have Miss Beaurepaire. She is safe for now. Bring the record to the old gas station in the desert at eight o’clock sharp. We know you know which gas station we’re referring to. The record for Miss Beaurepaire. That’s the deal. Do not contact the police. If you do, Miss Beaurepaire will die. Do not be late.”
I let the letter fall from my hands onto the table. Luther quickly grabbed it and reread it for himself.
Eighty-Eight picked up the envelope. “There’s something else in here.”
He turned the envelope over, and a necklace fell onto the table.
Luther picked up the necklace; a silver fleur-de-lis pendant dangled from it. “This was her mother’s. Betsy never takes it off.” Then he began to sob.
Eighty-Eight asked, “Trip, what are they talking about? What record?”
I was so in shock, I could barely breathe, much less speak.
He asked again, “Trip, what record?”
“I don’t have it,” I mumbled. “They think I do, but I don’t. Clegg took it. I don’t have it.”
Luther came out of his chair. “Who the hell is Clegg?”
“He’s…” I couldn’t finish the sentence because I didn’t know the answer.
There are a handful of moments in one’s life so profound we are changed forever. Pop dying was one of those times for me. This was another.
I stood up from the chair. “Eighty-Eight, I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“As of right now, The Jam Jar is closed. No one comes in, and I mean no one. I need you to take care of Luther. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” he answered.
“You need to understand, Eighty-Eight, you’re not babysitting. These people are dangerous and might come after Luther too. Stay on your guard.”
Eighty-Eight got up, went to his piano bench, lifted the lid, and pulled out an old Colt .45 revolver. He flung the chamber open, glanced in it, and then closed it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Luther’s safe. I can handle myself.”
“I know you can.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
I went over to Luther. His hands were trembling, sweat was rolling down his brow, and he didn’t appear like he was all there. I put both my hands on his big shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I’m going to go get our Betsy back.”
Chapter 15
I’d never driven the Falcon as fast as I drove it that day. I didn’t even know it could go that fast. Dodging traffic and running red lights, I tore down Bonanza until turning onto Sixth. The only place to park was in front of a fire hydrant, but I didn’t care. I squealed to a stop and jumped out of the car.
The metal security gate was pulled shut in front of Ray’s Market. I tried looking through the window, but it was too old and milky for me to make out anything inside. I grabbed the gate and began shaking it. “I know you’re in there,” I screamed, shaking the gate some more. “Clegg, I have to see you.”
“Nobody’s home,” an old man said, coming out of the shoe repair shop next door.
I didn’t stop shaking. “Clegg, it’s Callaway. Come out.”
“I’m telling you, nobody’s in there,” the man said again.
“Are you sure?” I asked, releasing the gate and stepping back.
“Some fellas came by early this morning and cleaned it out. Ray wasn’t here. He must have hired those fellas to do it for him. Didn’t leave so much as a shelf standing. Guess old Ray’s retiring to the good life.”
I ran my hand through my hair and fell against my car. I was sure Clegg was going to be in the market. So much so, I never consider what I’d do if he wasn’t. I looked at my watch, it was almost four, and I didn’t have a clue what to do next.
I nodded to the man, and he went back inside. I looked across the street at Kitty’s. It was obviously closed, not that anyone in there could’ve helped me anyway. Then, I glanced down the street and saw a man on the sidewalk. He wore dark glasses and was sitting in a wheelchair. He also had a hat resting on his lap. I watched as a woman walked by and dropped a few coins in the hat. The idea came to me as one uninterrupted thought, a ridiculous plan bordering on the insane. It’s also possible if I’d had time to think it over, I might have talked myself out of it. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.
I jumped back in the Falcon and sped off, once again breaking every traffic law the state of Nevada had on the books—including a few they never thought of. I made my way over to Las Vegas Boulevard and was making good time until halfway down The Strip my mph turned into miles per month, and traffic all but stopped. Bumper to bumper, door to door, I was surrounded, and there was no way for me to escape. I wanted to scream. My insides were being ripped apart by thoughts of Betsy. Where was she? What was being done to her? What was going to be done to her if I didn’t get that record back? It took everything in my power not to floor it and run the cars in front of me off the road.
My heart was heavier than it had ever been, the guilt nearly too much to take. I was responsible. There was no other way to look at it. This was happening because of me. The self-punishment went on and on; why didn’t I do a better job of keeping Luther and Betsy out of it all? I should have known after my apartment was broken into I was a marked man and done everything in my power to keep them at a safe distance. Which meant I never should have moved in above the club. Why did I do that? It was cowardly, irresponsible, and unforgivable.
I slammed my hands on the steering wheel and released a primal yell born from the bottom of my gut. So primal, so filled with rage, it shocked even me. I took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. Then I took another one. Then another one. I knew I had to regain some semblance of calm. Self-flagellation was not going to bring Betsy back. Only a clear head, steel spine, and a single-mindedness beyond anything I’d ever known before was going to do that. What I was intending to do was going to be incredibly dangerous, some might even say foolhardy, but it was the only way. That’s why it was time for the pity party to exit stage right and the famous Callaway cool to step into the spotlight.
The details of Ken’s and Lydia’s deaths were still murky, but at least I now had a pretty good idea what was going on in the bizarre drama I’d been tossed into the middle of. I still didn’t know who was exactly who in the twisted tale, nor who all the players were, but I felt sure I would figure all of that out in due course. For now, however, all that mattered was I knew with a ninety-nine percent degree of certainty where I could find Clegg. The problem was, to get to him, I would need help. Or at the very least, advice on how to do it without getting killed.
Traffic started moving again, and before long I was out of the city and flying through the desert like McQueen—not giving one piddly whoop-de-doo about its wide-openness. I was fifteen miles out of the city before I even touched the brake pedal. This time I had no problem finding the turn after crossing the railroad tracks. The Falcon bounced and banged down the rutty dirt road. The suspension was taking a beating, but my foot never lifted off the accelerator. A mile in, I skidded to a stop.
I got out and looked around. Nothing looked familiar in the daylight. I’d stood in the same spot the night before but might as well been standing on the moon for all the good it did me. Without a clue where I was heading, I started trotting down the road, praying I’d run into Skipper’s friends like before. But the more I ran, the more evident it became that wasn’t going to happen.
It was hot. And I mean hot like I’d never experienced hot before in my life. The horizon distorted and rippled from the searing heat lifting off the baked earth. There was no sound, and nothing moved. I called out, “Skipper!”
There was no response.
It didn’t take long before I was using my shirttail to wipe away the river pouring down my forehead and into my eyes. It helped for about five seconds. Ultimately, I abandoned vanity, took off my shirt completely, and used it as the rag it was becoming anyway.
I remembered the road wasn’t where I should be. The encampment was off to the left somewhere and took it on faith my superior sense of direction would not fail me, so I headed off into the brush. This was not the most brilliant idea I’d ever had.
I don’t know if you’ve ever walked through the desert before, but if you think it’s a tranquil sea of rolling sand dunes where Peter O’Toole elegantly steers his camel about, you’re wrong—at least this desert wasn’t. The terrain was more rocky than tranquil, and the only thing rolling was the deadly flora, which was—and I don’t think I’ve ever used this word to describe plant life before—mean. Every step was another journey through one of Dante’s nine circles, and I knew one wrong step would turn me into a half-dressed pin cushion. As far as commenting on the fauna, I’d rather not. For even though I’m an Indiana farm boy, I still knew enough about the desert to be aware all manner of deadly critters could be lurking below my size tens. For the sake of Betsy, I put the thought out of my mind.
“Skipper,” I yelled again, wrestling with some tumbleweed clinging to my trousers. “Skipper, it’s me, Trip.”
I stopped and looked around. I didn’t see a single sign of life. On top of that, I was starting to feel funny. Not funny ha ha, but funny uh-oh. I was about to head back to the road and try another route when I picked up on the smell of my old friend, burning wood. It was faint, but I definitely smelled it. I stopped and turned in a circle like a bloodhound zeroing in on a scent. Convinced I’d located the direction it was coming from, I moved toward it.
The sun was unrelenting, beating down on me with ruthless efficiency. I had stopped sweating, but now I had difficulty swallowing. My heart was beating faster than normal, and my head was throbbing. I considered stopping to gather myself, but the image of Betsy shot through my mind’s eye, so I soldiered on, albeit at a much slower pa
ce. My legs got weaker with every step, my vision blurrier, and I was having a hard time focusing on what was in front of me. I very much wanted to stop, and would have, except the smell of burning wood kept getting stronger. I had to be close.
I was navigating through a menacing cluster of cacti when I decided that was it, I had to turn around. But like an oasis magically appearing out of nowhere, lo and behold, I found myself standing in the encampment. I’d done it. I’d actually found it. But my celebration was short lived, my accomplishment the very definition of a hollow victory. I fell to my knees and wailed, “No!” The encampment was completely deserted—no tents, no sleeping bags, no bad coffee. The jungle had moved on.
The two fire pits were the only thing left to hint a camp had ever been there. The one in the center was nothing but a hole filled with ashes. The other, the one I obviously smelled, was mere embers, left smoldering from not being fully extinguished. Without ceremony, I pulled myself from the ground and dragged my way out the way I came in.
My feet were lead, and my head felt like it was full of helium. But somehow—and I truly don’t know how—I made it back to the road. I saw the Falcon sitting off in the distance. I began limping toward it, but with every step I took, the farther away it seemed to get. Putting one foot in front of the other became the hardest thing I’d ever done. My heart was going a thousand beats per minute, and a sour taste filled my throat. I knew I was about to throw up.
Before my brain had completed the thought that I might be in serious trouble, my mouth was filled with sand. With no recollection of doing so, I had collapsed, falling face first onto the road. I rolled over on my back and tried to open my eyes. The sun would have none of it. I attempted to raise my arm to shield the assault, but I was too weak and my arm too heavy. Then, suddenly, a coolness washed over me. I remember thinking a rogue cloud must have miraculously appeared in the sky to do battle with the beast on my behalf. Then I heard a voice.