Browning Without a Cause

by Peter Corris

  'Nice girl,' he said.

  'Maybe you should marry her.'

  He laughed so hard he was sick all down the side of the car.

  Saturday night was spent in pretty much the same way except that I heard doors opening and closing out at the Tardbetter farm and I gathered that Jimmy and Sara-May hadn't spent all their time on the porch. Dean was more sober this time and he took over the wheel for the drive back to Marfa.

  'What's she studying at college?' I asked.

  He giggled. 'What all boneheads study, what I studied 'fore I switched to drama — physical fucking education.'

  I gathered from his tone that we wouldn't be seeing a lot more of Sara-May.

  Sunday morning at the Dean-Hudson-Wills-Kelly place was spent recovering from hangovers and waiting until it was time for a beer or two with lunch.

  In the afternoon Jimmy got a phone call from Stevens calling him to an urgent meeting at the hotel the director was staying at in town. I was getting tired of my mock body-guarding role by this time and I made an excuse not to go. Hanging around film sets, though boring enough, does have its compensations in the way of attractive women to look at. Hotel hallways are another thing altogether. Hudson was going to the meeting and he had some muscleman in tow so Jimmy went with them.

  Pedro was washing that Plymouth again and not looking happy about it. I sauntered over to share a beer with him and kill some time. He pressed me for some details on how I planned to get back to respectability in Hollywood and I wasn't able to provide any. He glanced across at Dean's car.

  'You could spend a little time on that car. It looks like it's been used to round up hogs on a dirt farm.'

  'That's the way he likes it. Fits his image.'

  Pedro nodded. 'He sure is scruffy. You reckon he's going to stay like that?'

  'I doubt it. The script calls for him to become a tycoon in tails later on. I reckon you won't see him out of a tuxedo for a while.'

  Pedro shook his head. 'Actors.'

  I examined myself in one of the Plymouth's side mirrors. I fancied there was more grey than before in my hair and beard and, even though I'd been wearing a hat, the Texas sun had given me a weatherbeaten look. I doubted that Louise would recognise me — a worrying thought. I went back to the house, had another beer and tried to catch up on some of the sleep I'd been losing. My mind was burdened and it took me a long time to get to sleep. When I finally did I must have gone deep and long because it was dark outside when I woke up. That didn't worry me, what worried me was the feel of the business end of a pistol poking into my earhole and the smell of sweat, tobacco and whisky.

  A man was sitting on my bed holding a long-barrelled Colt .45 on me. In the gloom I could scarcely see him and from his stink I didn't want to.

  'Where's Dean at?' he said in a harsh, whining Texas accent. 'I'm planning to kill him and I don't mind including you.'

  20

  'HE'S not here,' I stammered.

  'I know he ain't here. I done looked through the house real thorough. I looked in that room of his and seen all that devil-worship stuff he's got in there.'

  'What?'

  'Them drums and them books and records.'

  I knew that Jimmy had some books about the occult, harmless mindless stuff about tarot cards and such. 'Jesus,' I said, 'that's not…'

  The Colt bit deep into my ear. 'You're the same stamp. You just used the Lord's name in vain. That buys you a bullet.'

  I could feel the warmth of the blood as it welled in my ear and dripped down the side of my face. 'Wait, wait. I don't understand this. Who are you?'

  'I'm a God-fearing Texan been watching your Mister Dean these past few weeks. Been watching him real close. You know one thing I've noticed?'

  He was clearly mad, partly drunk and, from the sound of his voice, quite old. If I could just get myself into a position that would give me some leverage I thought I might have a chance at him. But I was well and truly pinned down and the only thing to do was play along. People don't shoot you while in the middle of talking to you. Not usually.

  'No,' I said, wriggling a bit, trying to get an arm free of the sheet. I was acutely conscious that I was naked and that my own pistol was a long way off. 'What have you noticed?'

  'Lie still. He don't never go to church.'

  I almost blasphemed again and might have lost my life there and then if I had. I managed to bite the expression back.

  'He goes when he's at home in Los Angeles,' I said. 'It's just that down here…'

  'What kinda church does he go to?'

  He had me there. Naming the wrong one was likely to be a very bad move. Marfa was full of churches, different varieties of Baptist and Methodist and lots of others I'd never heard of. My chances of coming out with the right brand were nil.

  'I don't know. I think he goes to a lot of churches. He's still searching…'

  'Don't give me that. That's a lie. Lyin's a sin too — a very bad sin.'

  I realised that I was in the hands of a true religious maniac, one of the most dangerous human specimens in existence, because such people hate almost everybody and feel totally justified in everything they do. This puts them in another dimension from chaps like me, who like most people and are never quite sure what's the right thing to do. Except survive. I concentrated on that thought.

  'I'm sure Mr Dean would be glad to listen to what you have to say. And I'm sure you can persuade him to attend the church of your choice. What's the time? Is it too late for a service tonight?'

  The gun bit me again. 'Church is in the morning. Right after sun-up.'

  Probably complete with serpents and talking in tongues. 'Of course. That's a right shame. Yes, well, perhaps next Sunday…'

  'Ain't goin' to be no next Sunday for that sinner. I seen the way the girls go after him. Decent, god-fearin' girls until he come along with his Devil ways. They like to worship him, and the Lord says "Thou shalt have no Gods but me." That's what the Lord says.'

  Crazier and crazier and now with a note of sexual jealousy. The brew was getting more potent by the second. I was sweating and I had a bursting bladder, a bad feeling when you're gripped by fear.

  'What about "vengeance is mine"? What about that, Mr…'

  'Tardbetter, Duane Tardbetter. I sees you know the name.'

  I couldn't help reacting. I twitched and let out a breath I must have been holding for a long time. At that point I was just about ready to give up. If he'd been watching events out at the farm he'd have gathered plenty of fuel to stoke his insane fire, and he'd be able to hold me just as guilty as James Dean. I'd always wanted to die in bed, but not like this. My eyes had adjusted to the gloom and by swivelling them I could just get a look at the Colt. It was an old-fashioned model, possibly badly maintained. I certainly couldn't smell any fresh oil on it and my senses were tuned fine for survival. Still, his hand was steady and it would have required more nerve than I possess to take a chance on a mis-fire. I forced myself to relax and tried to work my hand up under the pillow. Just maybe…but I had to keep him talking.

  'What do you want me to do, Mr Tardbetter? You must want something or you would've just shot me where I lay. And how about that verse I just quoted you?'

  'The Devil can quote scripture. Happens all the time in them Jew and Catholic churches and them places where the niggers jump about. What I want's simple enough — I want to put a bullet in that heathen laid his filthy hands on my kinswoman. Can you understand that?'

  I was desperate and said the first thing that came into my head, probably triggered by the remark I'd made to Jimmy the night before. 'I do. But my understanding is that Mr Dean and Miss Tardbetter have an arrangement. Why, they're as good as engaged.'

  It was his turn to react. He started, almost flinched and the metal was out of my ear. It was the best chance I was ever going to get. I heaved off the bed, lifting legs, body and arms in one desperate lunge. Tardbetter was a heavy man I discovered, but my strength was quadrupled by desperation. He toppled sideway
s to the floor. I jumped off the bed and took a quick kick at him, connecting, but only lightly with a bare foot. His grip on the pistol had slipped but he hadn't lost it altogether and I could tell I wouldn't have time for another shot. My clothes were lying over a chair near the door and the .38 in its holster was hooked over the chair underneath them. I sprang in that direction, made a grab but missed. My hand tangled in my shirt and the chair fell over.

  Tardbetter fired and the bullet smashed into the wall. I yelled and ran — out into the hallway, heading for the back of the house. Two more bullets zinged by me as I made the turn, banging my knee painfully on the corner. I was in the kitchen, clawing at the back door. I remembered Pedro's rifle and ammunition. I'd left them in the garage. If only I could get there. I wrenched the door open and stumbled down the steps into the backyard as the big Colt boomed twice again and glass broke somewhere. I tripped on the bottom step, turned my ankle agonisingly, sprawled my length and scrambled along on all fours, desperately seeking some cover. Tardbetter was slow coming down the steps and I fancied I could hear his heavy breathing as I frantically tried to crawl towards the garage. A shot ploughed up grass and dirt in front of me, throwing it into my eyes and blinding me. I knew I wasn't going to make it to the rifle and it wouldn't matter if I did because I couldn't see anything. There was dirt in my mouth too, as if I was dead and buried already.

  I managed to roll behind a low hedge but I knew it wasn't any use. The hedge wouldn't hide me or stop a bullet. Why didn't somebody come to investigate the shots? Were they all in church? Then I heard the sound of metal on metal and I knew that Tardbetter was re-loading the six-shooter. I tried to stand in order to charge him — not courage, just animal instinct to survive. My ankle gave way and I fell, whimpering with the pain and fear to the ground. This was it. I'd survived Kaiser Wilhelm II, Tojo and the Imperial Japanese Army, the FBI, irate husbands, Howard Hughes, Errol Flynn and Lucky Luciano and I was going to be killed in a Texas backyard by a religious maniac. I heard the cylinder of the Colt slam home and I closed my eyes.

  The next thing I heard was the crunching sound of wood on bone and a harsh sigh like steam escaping from a boiler. Then something metallic hit the ground and exploded. I thought for an instant that I was back at the Somme, among the mines and mud and that I'd triggered an explosive that had ruled the bottom line for me. Then I heard Pedro's voice.

  'It's all right, Dick. I've knocked him cold. You can come out now.'

  I crawled from behind the hedge, tried to stand and fell down again.

  'Are you wounded?' Pedro asked.

  I blinked frantically, trying to clear the blood and grit. As if through a smokescreen, I saw him standing over Tardbetter, who was sprawled in the dirt. Pedro held a baseball bat casually in one hand, as if he'd just hit a homer. Relief flooded through me as I coughed and spat to clear my mouth.

  'I'm not shot I don't think,' I croaked. 'I've buggered my ankle. I can't seem to stand up.'

  'You might say thank you.'

  'Thanks…' I was buck naked, embarrassed and bleeding from scratches and scrapes. I tried again to stand and fainted clean away.

  21

  I heard the police siren and saw the cops arrive and mill about just as if I was watching the action on a movie screen. I was suffering some kind of physical and mental paralysis that allowed me to observe events but not participate in them. It must have the been brought on by the shock of almost having my cheque cancelled by a raving religious lunatic with a frontier Colt. Other people arrived — neighbours, Chill Wills, a doctor. Somebody threw a blanket over me. Pedro was doing most of the talking. He accused Duane Tardbetter of being the writer of threatening letters and the man who'd taken a pot shot at James Dean. He even escorted one of the cops around the side of the house, no doubt to show him the bullets in the porch post.

  I wanted to contradict all of this but I simply couldn't speak. The doctor inspected my lacerated ear and damaged ankle.

  'Lost some blood,' he said. 'Not too much. Ankle's sprained most likely, not broke. He'll be OK.'

  As a healer he was evidently of the leave-it-alone-and-it'll-get-better school. This is a philosophy I generally favour myself, but I like to have the option. He strapped the ankle and hurt me so much I managed to get out a couple of words.

  'Anyone got a drop of whisky?'

  Someone produced a flask and I took a swig which cleared my vision and fully restored my speech. I pointed to the other casualty.

  'What about him?'

  The doctor turned his attention to Tardbetter, who was lying peacefully on his back, snoring. The doctor lifted his eyelids and made a few other rudimentary examinations.

  'Out cold. No concussion. He'll be OK.'

  A great man to have around. They could have used him at the Little Big Horn. He was a great diagnostician too, almost as soon as he spoke, Tardbetter's bloodshot eyes fluttered open and the first thing he would have seen was me, taking another pull on the flask. Maybe he thought he was in hell, where the sinners all got a drink and the Christians went dry, because he began to weep.

  'Where am I?' he whimpered. 'What's happenin'?'

  For an answer, one of the sheriff's men leaned down and clamped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. This was long before all that Miranda nonsense came in.42 The deputy said, 'You're under arrest, Duane. How come you been carrying on in this here crazy fashion? You been at the moonshine agin?'

  'I'm a sick man,' Tardbetter said. He looked across at me and held out his manacled hands entreatingly.

  'I didn't hurt you none, did I, mister?'

  'Not your fault you didn't. You were trying to shoot me.'

  His eyes went narrow and cunning. 'How many shots did that greaser say I get off out front?'

  I'd forgotten. 'Three or four.'

  'You hear that, Billy Lee? You ever heard of Duane Tardbetter shootin' a rifle, missing a target the size of a man, firing three or four times?'

  The deputy shook his head. 'Never did. That's a pure fact.'

  'Right,' Tardbetter said, 'ain't possible.'

  'You were drunk when you were shooting at me. Maybe you were drunk then as well.'

  'Never happened.' He looked about to deny that he'd taken a drop of liquor in his life either, but I held up the flask invitingly.

  'Care for a drink now?'

  His hands shot out and I tossed the flask to him. I was in a ticklish spot. I was sure the studio wouldn't want Dean's romancing of Sara-May to become the talk of the town. No percentage in it, but it was hard to explain Duane Tardbetter's actions without reference to it, other than the way Pedro was going about it and that had a lot of drawbacks, including the fact that it was a pack of lies. I decided to fall back on my injuries and shocked state and await developments while Tardbetter drained the last drops of whisky.

  Pedro came back with the other deputy and a third cop, a small guy with a squeaky voice, had got rid of the gawkers and was comforting a couple of upset suburbanites. Chill Wills had gone inside and the doctor went away looking for other victims to reassure. Marfa's law enforcement officers seemed to be graded according to height. The man who'd been with Pedro was taller than the one who'd stayed with Tardbetter and me and he seemed to have the authority for the moment — on that basis there was no doubt who'd have the final say.

  'Guess we'd all better take a ride downtown and see what the sheriff has to say about this. Got to tell you that discharging of firearms inside city limits is a serious offence, Duane.'

  'Didn't use t'be, Clyde,' Tardbetter said.

  Clyde shifted his tobacco plug to the other side of his mouth. 'That's the truth. Times have sure changed. You kin ride with Billy-Lee and Mr Cortez here. I'd like to get acquainted with Mr Kelly. That's after he gets some clothes on.'

  It's uncomfortable enough, riding in a police car with a splitting headache and a throbbing ankle and trying to remember what assumed name you're using, without worrying about other people's inventions. I wondered how long Pedro wou
ld stick to the story about Duane doing the letter-writing and shooting. The shooting he might have been up to, but somehow I doubted that he could use a typewriter with the same facility. I also wondered if Pedro had got rid of the machine and just how far I ought to back him up — another way of saying when I should leave him high and dry. Always remembering that he knew who I was and why I was hiding behind cows and horses in this god-forsaken part of the world.

  My ankle had swollen up too far for me to pull on my pants, so I was wearing a shirt, boxer shorts and a bathrobe — not the most dignified outfit to confront Sheriff Clayhorn in. At the very least you'd require your own pair of cowboy boots just to be able to look him in the chin. I was bare-footed. When I thought about it, I realised that of the three of us, I was the one who looked like an escaped convict or a refugee from a mental hospital.

  The deputy introduced himself as Clyde Barrow and claimed kinship with a famous outlaw of the same name in the Depression era. I was around in those days but not in Texas. I'd heard of him vaguely, but I was in Chicago at the time and we weren't too impressed by backwoods bankrobbers. Apparently he was very famous in Texas, having the important credential of being born there.43 Deputy Barrow, it turned out, wanted to talk movies.

  He steered the big county Buick with one casual hand

  Evidently not wanting to look like a hick, he'd dispensed with the chewing tobacco and puffed on a small cigar as he drove. 'You an actor, Mr Kelly?'

  'I have been. Not so much lately. Getting a bit old for it.' I didn't know which way the conversation would turn, and I didn't think it would hurt to apply for a little sympathy.

  'Now that's a business I really would like to get into. I reckon I could do pretty good at it and you know the part I'd really admire to play?'

  'No.'

  'Clyde Barrow of course. My cousin. Now he had a life to make a movie of. A real mean man, but with a good streak, you understand what I'm sayin'? Never stole from poor folks at all.'