Last Stop on Dowling Street

by Scott William Carter

  Last Stop on Dowling on Street

  Scott William Carter

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  "Road Gamble"

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  "Last Stop on Dowling Street" by Scott William Carter. Copyright © 2011.

  Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, October 2011. Originally published in Crimewave, December 2006.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.

  Last Stop on Dowling Street

  Frank Granger woke possessed with the feeling that someone was in his bedroom. He bolted upright in bed, his t-shirt drenched with sweat, the metallic taste of fear in his mouth, his heart pounding so hard it was moment before he noticed it was raining outside. Not just raining—pouring, coming down like God taking a piss after a night of drinking, as his buddy Jim used to say.

  His feet were tangled in a mess of sweaty sheets. Darkness suffocated his room, no moonlight, no light from the bathroom spilling in from the hall. The smell of mold was strong; his trailer always smelled like mold after it had rained. A hundred miles west of Houston, surrounded by scrub grass and tumbleweed, not another neighbor within half a mile, there wasn't any light from outside without the moon. But the bathroom light being off, that bothered Frank, because he always left the light on in case he needed to take a leak in the middle of the night. Plus ever since his old buddy Jim decided to see what the mouth of a shotgun tasted like two years back, Frank liked having a light on. He couldn't say why exactly. It just seemed better that way.

  Damn power must have gone out, Frank thought. At first he thought it might have had something to do with the riots in Houston. It had been a week since that black preacher had been shot, and the damn niggers were causing trouble everywhere. His heart just would not slow down, and he peered into the black, trying to make out the familiar objects in his room. The darkness seemed to have shades and hues, and if he strained he thought he caught hints of his surroundings. Was that his dresser there by the closet? Was that the wicker chair in the corner? The longer he looked at where he was sure the wicker chair was, the more he was sure that there was somebody sitting in it. Frank himself never used the chair. Alice had bought it at a garage sale, saying it would be perfect for them to sit in when they put their shoes on, but she never sat in it either as far as he could remember. He had harassed her about it for years, telling her that they really should get rid of that damn chair. Then she went and died, just passing quietly in her sleep three days short of seventy, and Frank stopped caring about the chair.

  But there was somebody sitting in the chair, something about the darkness, the complexity of it. Don't be a damn fool, he told himself. Why would somebody sneak into your house just to sit in your wicker chair? Mind playing tricks, that's all. You don't own nothing worth stealing and you keep to yourself.

  Finally, as his breathing became regular, he began to ease himself down into bed. That's when he heard a sound that could only be one thing: the distinctive crackle of a body shifting in the wicker chair. He froze, his heart pounding furiously, his mouth dry and course like sand paper, and stared at where he imagined the person was sitting.

  "Who's there?" he said.

  When there was no answer, Frank reached to turn on his bedside lamp, and it was only then that the person spoke.

  "Don't."

  Frank jumped as if he had just been poked in the ass with a branding iron. It was a deep, hoarse voice. Christ, there was somebody in his room—in his damn room! He had a Colt .45 in the drawer next to his bed, and he started to move his hand toward it.

  "I wouldn't do that," the man said. Then there followed the far more terrifying noise of a pistol being cocked.

  The man sounded nervous. He also had a Texas accent, and there was a certain quality to it that lead Frank to believe he was a nigger. Frank's mind raced as he tried to think of any niggers that would want to kill him. There had been a lot of niggers who rode his bus back in Houston, the Dowling Street route, the one that none of the other drivers wanted because it was mostly niggers. But he had never treated them badly, not really. He had to keep them in check now and then, but he had been kind to them, kinder than they deserved, really.

  "I don't got no money," Frank said.

  "That's not surprising."

  "I don't got no gold or coins or nothing of value."

  The nigger cleared his throat. "That's not why I'm here."

  Frank, his fear growing, started again for the pistol at his bedside, but the nigger spoke before he had even moved his hand a few inches.

  "If you persist in that idea," the nigger said, "I'll be forced to do something about it. Besides . . . I brought my own gun, but I thought—well, no one could trace yours back to me."

  That's when Frank realized that this nigger was no petty criminal come for whatever loose change he could find; this man had an agenda. "Who are you?" he said, his constricted throat choking off the final word.

  "Just somebody's husband," the nigger said.

  Frank's mind, still sluggish from that late night scotch, tried to make sense of this comment. It was said with an accusatory tone. "Do I know your wife or something?" he asked.

  The nigger responded with a snort. "I doubt you'd remember her, even though she rode your bus for ten years. Besides, she's dead."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "Don't fucking lie to me."

  It was the first time the man had raised his voice; everything else he had said had been spoken with cool detachment. The nigger sounded like one of those fancy learned types, a professor maybe. But that last bit, there was real rage in his voice, murderous rage, and Frank suddenly felt like he was falling.

  "Did I wrong her in some way?" he asked.

  The nigger didn't answer for a long time. The rain had picked up, pinging against the metal roof. The moaning wind sounded like a woman in childbirth, full of pain and expectation.

  "She's been dead for twelve years," the niggers said, his voice now a hair above a whisper. "I never thought I'd be here, you know. I'm a man of the cloth, you see. Forgive and forget, I always say. Not that I didn't have thoughts back when she died. Awful thoughts. I looked up where you lived, in that ratty apartment back in Houston. I even stood in the shadows next to the stoop and watched you come home one night. But I didn't do anything. I stil had two sons. Had to think about them."

  "I guess I don't—"

  "Don't speak unless I tell you to speak."

  The sharpness was there in the nigger's voice again. Frank couldn't believe he was being treated this way in his own home—and by a nigger! He had to think of a way out of this mess. The nigger had his pistol, sure, but there was also the .22 underneath the bed. If he could find a way to roll off the bed, on the far side where he'd be out of the nigger's line of fire, maybe he could get to the shotgun in time. Then he could the nigger's fucking face off.

  "I didn't think I was going to tell you any of this," the nigger said. "I didn't think it mattered, but now I think it does. You need to hear it. And maybe I need to say it. Then I'll do what I came to do and finally put you behind me."

  Frank's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. The light was still too faint to see much, but he thought he s
aw the peacock-like back to the wicker chair, as well as a gleam off the nigger's bald scalp.

  "I'll tell you why I'm here, Frank Granger," the nigger said. "I'll tell you as plain as I can make. I'm here because you killed me wife."

  "I never killed anybody," Frank said.

  "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, you hear me?" He mumbled something under his breath, then spoke more calmly. "You see what you've done to me, Granger? My whole life I served to the glory of God, and you make me nothing by a raving lunatic. I've never raised my voice in anger in my entire life, and yet you'd think it was ordinary behavior for me. But it's not. It's you. You're poison to me, Granger. That's why I've got to kill you."

  Although Frank had suspected that was why the nigger was there, it was the first time the nigger had said it so bluntly. A steady pressure was building in his bladder. What he needed was a distraction—something to give him a moment to duck under the bed and fish out the shotgun. But what? What?

  "I swear I've never hurt anyone," Frank said, trying to sound as meek as possible. He didn't mind sounding pathetic if it would get him out of this mess. There would be plenty of time for revenge later.

  "Do—not—speak!" the nigger cried. "I will speak my piece and you will listen, you worthless shit. You piece of crap. You . . You . . ." He trailed off, taking a few deep breaths until he had regained his composure. "You may not know that you killed her, but you did. My wife rode your damn bus near every day for ten years, but I bet you wouldn't recognize her if I showed you a picture. I'd bet money on it. I'd bet my entire life savings."

  Frank wanted to say, but a lot of people rode my bus, but he kept silent. He didn't know how much further he could push the nigger. He sounded like he was about to snap, so he had to tread lightly. Try to think of a way to distract the nigger. He would get out of this, Frank would. He was a survivor. He wasn't going to get shot by no nigger.

  The rain and the wind had slackened, allowing other sounds into the room. He heard creaking pipes, the drip from the faucet in the kitchen, the rhodie scratching against the living room window. He wished he would hear a car, but he knew that was unlikely. Right then he hated Alice for wanting to move out in the middle of godforsaken no where.

  "I wish, just for a minute," the nigger said, "I could climb inside your mind. Then I could know if there is even one shred of decency in you. What did you do, you want to know? All right, I'll tell you. My wife, she worked as a waitress in a diner. Even though I told her not to work overtime, she thought we needed the money. We had two young sons, and I was only a lowly assistant pastor. She didn't want her sons to look like beggars, she said. She had pride that way. I used to think it was a weakness of hers, but now I don't think so."

  Frank began edging himself toward the far side of the bed. The nigger seemed to be obsessed with his own story. If Frank moved ever so slowly, maybe the bastard wouldn't notice.

  "She rode your bus home from work everyday," the nigger continued. "Back then, my people had to pay up front, then get off and board in the back. I'm sure you remember. You were good at enforcing it. She told me how you used to throw negroes off your bus if they got cross with you. 'It's state law,' you'd tell 'em. But my wife, she obeyed the rules. She was no Rosa Parks. She couldn't afford to go to jail, not with two sons and a husband who could barely put bread on the table much less pay the rent. But one day it was raining hard, and she was coming down with a cold, and maybe she wasn't thinking so clearly. Instead of getting off and reboarding, she just dropped in her coins and started for the back. You told her to get the hell off and board the way the colored are supposed to board. And she did. She did just like what you said. She was tired and sick and cold, and the rain was coming down something fierce, but she still went back outside. And that's when—when—"

  The nigger's voice had become strained. He took a moment to gather himself, sucking in breath through his teeth. Frank had made it halfway to the other side of the bed. Just a little farther.

  "That's when you pulled away from the curb and left her there," the nigger went on, his voice rising. "Yours was the last bus of the night, so she had no choice but to walk downtown where we lived. Three miles. Three miles in the pouring rain. With a fever. She told me what happened when she got home, right before she stripped off her soaked clothes and collapsed into bed. I told her I was going to track you down and give you a piece of my mind, but she said no, that you didn't matter, that you were just a little man full of hate, and that we shouldn't bother with little men. God wouldn't want it. See, I was the man of the cloth, but she was the better person. She always was."

  Frank was almost there. A few more inches . . .

  "Well, you can probably guess what happened next," the nigger said. "All that walking in the rain, she didn't have a chance. She came down with pneumonia. That night was the last time she was really coherent. Three days later, she was dead. You wouldn't believe how hard it was not to track you down and kill you right then, Granger. I wanted to do it. I was capable of doing it. But I was going to honor her last wishes. I put my faith in God. I let him guide my way. I raised my sons. I became the pastor of a church. I thought I had put you behind me."

  Frank was now close enough to do the roll. Now he just needed that distraction. A pillow! He could throw a pillow at the nigger's face.

  "But then one of my sons was drafted into the army," the nigger said, "and the other one joined so they could go to Vietnam together. I was against it. I told them to go to Canada instead. They didn't listen. They went off to fight together. It wasn't three months that a Colonel in uniform showed up on Sunday in my pews, his face so solemn that he didn't have to say a word. Both of them gone, just like that."

  Frank slid his hands behind his head and grasped the pillow. Sweat dribbled down his forehead. His heart pounded so hard it felt as if it would burst from his chest. If this didn't work, he was finished, but it had to work. He was going to blow this nigger to kingdom come.

  "That's about when I stopped believing in God," the nigger said. "I went on preaching for a while, pretending it wasn't so, pretending for myself just as much for my congregation. But the belief was gone. And now I know that sometimes thing happen to you, and then you just can't believe in God anymore. Some things just take away the possibility. Some people go on pretending, but they don't really believe."

  The nigger shifted in his chair, and the sound made Frank freeze. When he spoke again, Frank realized that the nigger had leaned forward.

  "Even then, I didn't come looking for you," the nigger said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "God didn't exist, but my wife did. She was out there watching me, and I had made a promise to her. I've followed you over the years, and we've got a lot in common. You've got nobody left either, just like me, and I took some satisfaction in that. I told myself at least you would die alone. And that was enough, for a while. Then you bastards killed King. You killed King, and it was like that night you left my wife in the rain was just yesterday."

  Frank knew the time had come. It was now or never. He clenched the pillow with his fists and—

  "What you're about to do," the nigger said, "I wouldn't do it."

  Frank's body tensed. The nigger couldn't know what he was doing. Could he?

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

  "Oh, sure you do. You're thinking of throwing that pillow at my face so you can roll off the bed and get to that shotgun. It may be dark, but I can see that plain as day. Do you think I would be stupid enough to leave that shotgun for you? Do you think I'd be that dumb, when I went to all the trouble to turn off the power? Do you really think this is the first time I've been in your pitiful little shit hole?"

  Frank felt as if he had been shot in the heart with an arrow. All his hope was bleeding out of him.

  "Please don't kill me," he whined.

  For a long time, the nigger didn't respond. Then Frank heard the wicker chair groan and whine, the rustle of clothing, footsteps on the carpet. Panic seized him, and h
e scrambled for the other side of the bed. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. He saw the nigger's dark outline, the gleam of glasses, a silvery mustache. Frank started to squirm, but then there was a gun in his mouth, shoved deep, the metal cold and pushing against the back of his mouth. He fell still, paralyzed.

  "So it comes down to this," the nigger said. "You took my wife from me, and now you're gonna get what you deserve."

  The barrel went deeper. He felt the man's hand pressing down on his sternum. Frank's body convulsed. His bladder let go, his crotch warm and wet, and then the tears gushed from his eyes. "Pwwwweaaa," he said, the gun making it all but impossible to talk. "Pweeeeeeaaaa . . . I doh waaaa die . . ."

  Frank didn't see his life pass in front of his eyes. What he did experience was an extreme heightening of the senses. The nigger was still shrouded in darkness, but he saw him better now—the protruding forehead, the depth of despair in the recessed sockets of his eyes, the leathery texture of his skin. He smelled himself, piss and alcohol, and he smelled the nigger, a musky odor mixed with the pungent vapors of drying clothing. Frank heard the creak of the loose gutter out back, the skittering the rats under the trailer . . . It all came to him at once.

  Then the nigger pulled the trigger.

  There was a snap that Frank both heard and felt. For half a second he thought the bullet was already traveling through his mouth and out the back of his neck, but upon thinking this he realized that it couldn't be happening, because he wouldn't have been able to think at all. And then it dawned on him that although the nigger had pulled the trigger, the gun hadn't fired.

  The nigger pulled the gun out of Frank's mouth. The bed squeaked and shifted as the nigger rose. Frank, unsure of what was happening, stared up at the dark blot standing over him.

  "I'll have you know I was going to kill you," the nigger said. "All the way up until tonight, I was going to do it. And I'm still going to do it. You just won't know when. You see, I realized something. I realized that if I just go on and kill you, you'll never know what it's like to live the way my wife lived when she rode your bus. You may still not really know, but at least you'll get a taste of it. You'll understand what it's like to live in fear. And I swear to you, I'm coming back, and that was only empty chamber in the gun. I may come tomorrow, or next week, or even next year, but I will come."