Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

  In Jerry’s two previous visits, they had gagged the girl so she wouldn’t give away her presence. But there was no time for that now. Jesus!

  Tank quickly strode down the hall, unlocked the door to where Erycca was held, and stuck his head in.

  “Somebody’s going to be here,” he said. “You make one little peep and I’ll personally cut your throat. Got it?”

  Erycca, sitting on the bed wide-eyed, nodded. Tank shut the door and locked it.

  He returned to the living room just as Jerry’s big 442 pulled up. A cloud of dust wafted across the yard as Jerry skidded to a stop and climbed out of the car.

  Tank opened the front door and came outside. “Hey, Jerry! You’re early.”

  Jerry walked straight toward Tank, with a face of such ferocity that the bigger man stepped back instinctively, even though he easily could have overpowered his boss.

  “Where is the girl?” he asked.

  “Uh … the girl?” said Tank. But there was no point in trying to lie his way out of this one. “You mean … that girl who was with the dude. Yeah. I was going to tell you about her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s fine, man. We’re taking good care of her. I was just going to tell you …”

  Jerry grabbed Tank by the front of his collar and jerked him forward.

  “Where is she, fuckface?” Jerry yelled.

  Tank was not accustomed to being manhandled. He pushed Jerry away roughly.

  “Keep your pants on, man! She’s in the back bedroom. She’s fine!”

  Jerry turned around and took a few paces away, then whirled back around. “You idiot!” he said. “You were not supposed to grab the girl, or anybody else. I told you to pick up Timothy … Kaufman. Period. Why the fuck did you grab his girlfriend?”

  “Because she was there!” yelled Tank. “What the fuck were we supposed to do? She saw us. She could identify us!”

  “You were supposed to use your fucking mind, moron!” Jerry said. “If somebody else is there, you walk away. Obviously. You scrub the plan and try again later. You don’t kidnap a girl. Jesus!”

  “You just said you wanted me to grab that dude,” said Tank. “You never said nothing about ‘Oh, maybe do it if you have a chance.’ Somebody gives me a job, and I do the job. That’s how I operate.”

  Jerry shook his head. “You stupid, stupid dipshit,” he said. He walked straight up to Tank again and thrust a finger into his chest. “You know what you fucking did? You got the cops involved. I heard the word in town. They’re searching for that girl. The cops are all over this now. And you are in trouble, pal!”

  Tank took a step back, his face icy. “Don’t touch me again, man.”

  Jerry put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Why did I have to hire somebody so fucking stupid? I guess I’m the stupid one. Hiring idiots. This is what I get.”

  The sound of the van coming up the road made them both turn around. Mitchell came driving up in the Econoline, parked, and climbed out, carrying two grocery bags bearing the Piggly Wiggly logo.

  “I got some beer and donuts,” he said. “Oh … hey, Jerry!”

  “Hello, Mitchell,” Jerry said. Mitchell walked past both of them and into the house. Jerry gazed out toward the horizon for half a minute. Tank waited.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s get this going. Do you have a room ready for me to talk to Kaufman?”

  “Yeah, got it all set up. Two chairs and a little table, just like you wanted. There’s just a little lock on the door, but I turned it around so you can lock him in if you need to.”

  “Get a couple of beers and a few donuts and put them on the table in the room. Then, when I give you the word, get Kaufman and bring him to me. Don’t tell him anything, just bring him in.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Leave her for now,” said Jerry. “She is a whole different problem.”

  Tank went into the house. Jerry walked back to his car and retrieved a briefcase. This was the big carrot, a box of positive incentive from Grandpa Kaufman for his only grandson. Two big, fat, juicy carrots, in fact. He carried the briefcase inside and set it behind one of the stuffed chairs.

  Tank set two cold beers on the table along with a half a dozen Southern Girl glazed donuts on a paper plate. Jerry opened the box. The donuts were fresh, glistening with sugar, and smelled good. Jerry sat in one of the chairs.

  No disguises. No fake beards. This would have to be the sales job of his life.

  “Okay, bring in our boy,” Jerry said.

  – 35 –

  Tuck and Protect Your Left

  The only reason the Lennox Real Estate White Sox stand a chance against the R. L. Farmer Insurance Indians today is because the Indians are missing their starting pitcher, Sammy Grant. Sammy is the kind of freakishly large twelve-year-old who inspires league officials to demand a birth certificate. Christ, he’s taller than the coach! His murderous high fastball is the only pitch he’s really good at, but this is Little League, and the pitch intimidates everybody who faces it. Only a few kids in town can hit against him, and none of them bat for the White Sox.

  This is an away game, in the sense that it’s on the east side of Duro and the Sox practice on the west side. The coaches try to get the kids excited about that fact. “Get out there and show ’em what us west siders can do, boys!” yells coach Mike.

  “Yay!” cheer the Little Leaguers, but, really? The west side? Whatever. This is their third time going up against Super Sammy Grant, and he’s creamed them twice before.

  So, after arriving at this foreign field, while the coaches are hitting fungos out into right, center, and left fields, the Sox start looking around and … where is he? He’s not here. Whispers and speculation. Then a kid on the Indians team confirms the exhilarating truth: Sammy threw up in the van, and his mom had to come get him!

  Yes! Sammy puked! Sammy puked! The rest of the Indians are not all that special. The Sox take the field with victory so close they can taste it.

  Still, the Indians have a couple of great innings and are leading 5 to 4 at the top of the eighth. For their part, the White Sox are breaking their own record for stranding runners on base. The inning doesn’t start well when Andy’s friend Douglas Fairchild, usually reliable, pops up a stupidly slow fastball, and the Indians snag yet another easy out. But then Julio Cruz bangs one low at the shortstop’s ankles, who bobbles the ball a few seconds before throwing, and Julio is safe at first.

  Andy is up next. He’s normally pretty good, but today he’s overthinking it. At least that’s what Coach Mike tells him before he goes out to bat.

  “Relax, son. Imagine that the pitcher’s wearing a clown suit.”

  That seems like pretty stupid advice, but Andy tries it. The clown throws two quick outside pitches, but Andy doesn’t bite. Two balls, no strikes.

  “Lean in, Andy!” yells Doug. “He throws wide!”

  “Settle down, Pete!” the Indians’ coach yells. The clown pitcher is getting frustrated. He overcompensates and throws a hard, fast pitch inside right at Andy, who jumps back, but the ball catches him on his left hand.

  “Owwww!” Andy winces and holds his left hand, hopping up and down. God DARN it, that hurts!

  “Take a base,” says the umpire. Andy trots to first base holding his left hand, which is throbbing right behind his knuckles. One of the other team’s coaches comes over to check his hand.

  “Hold it out, work it for me, open and close.” Then he squeezes Andy’s hand in the middle. OUCH!

  “He’s okay!” calls the Indians’ coach.

  The pitcher is rattled, and he throws a beauty right to Nolan Birch, who knocks the crap out of the ball just out of the third baseman’s reach. Nolan tries to make too much of it and is tagged out at third, but Julio and Andy both make it across home plate, and the Sox hold on to win it 6 to 5.

  Andy’s left hand hurts like hell. Coach Mike gives him a towel wrapped in ice, and Andy tries to hold it on his hand,
but it makes it hurt even more. Still, winning means the team gets ice cream, and Andy’s determined to go, especially since he got the winning run. His mom Peggy doesn’t want him to go, because the hand is turning red and starting to swell, but Andy looks so heartbroken that she relents.

  When they get home, Peggy looks at Andy’s hand under a strong light. It’s turning blue behind the center knuckle, and the swelling is worse. By now it’s too late in the evening to go to the regular doctor, and the emergency room costs like the dickens, so they wait. The next morning, she takes him to the family doctor, who sends him across the street for X-rays, where it is determined he has a minor fracture.

  “It’s not a complete break,” says the doctor. “I’ll tape it up. He just needs to not use his hand for a few days. You’re right-handed, aren’t you, Andy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then, you’ll be fine. Just take care of it. Keep ice on it today. It should be fine in a couple of weeks. But no baseball in the meantime, young man. Sorry.”

  Andy doesn’t care that much about baseball, but now he has to face the stern looks of his violin teacher. She’ll be mad that he can’t play.

  Peggy calls Mrs. Kellogg to explain Andy’s injured status. “Should we just skip the music lesson for this week?”

  “No,” says Mrs. Kellogg. “Go ahead and bring him over. We can focus on music theory today. That’s where Andy is weak anyway.”

  So, he goes to his music lesson, not bothering to bring his violin. Before they begin, Mrs. Kellogg sits him down in a straight-back chair and sits right in front of him. She looks pretty scary. Andy is afraid she’ll be mad, but she’s not mad. She just looks stern, and disappointed.

  “Andy, you have a gift,” she says. “You’re one of my best students. You’re already ahead of some of my high school kids. If you want to, and you’re willing to work hard, you can be great.” She takes his taped-up hand, gently. “This is a precious thing, Andy, this hand. Great dancers protect their feet. Great musicians protect their hands. Do you like baseball a whole lot?”

  “I like it a pretty whole lot,” says Andy. That sounds dumb.

  “Do you like playing your violin?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I love it.”

  “Then you have to protect your hand. You’ve got to protect it all the time. I’m not going to tell you not to play baseball, but if you hurt your hand badly someday, it would be a tragedy, because you could never be great at music. Do you want to be great?”

  Andy nods.

  “Andy, you know Michael Watts, the concertmaster with the symphony? Once he tripped on the stairs at the auditorium after a concert, and you know what he did? He tucked his left hand close to his body as he fell. I saw it happen. He was a little bruised, but we were all amazed at how he tucked it in and protected that left hand, by instinct. He knew how valuable it was.”

  Andy decides to quit baseball but finish out the season. With only four games to go, he suits up and yells from the bench. If the Sox win, he still gets ice cream.

  Grown-up Andy, for the first time in many years, was back to being a student of Mrs. Usher Kellogg. She worked him hard, trying to improve his stamina, encouraging him to adapt to a new style of bowing that his rebuilt wrist could handle. They were making progress with bow control lately as his flexibility gradually returned. Usually, she let him say when he had enough for the day.

  One afternoon, after they had worked through several particularly challenging etudes from Kreutzer’s Studies, Andy raised his hand in surrender.

  “Had enough?” asked Mrs. Kellogg. “If you can take a shot at number 39, you’ll have played them all at least once.”

  “I have something else I wanted to show you,” said Andy. He reached into his music bag and produced several handwritten sheets of music. He positioned them on the stand, picked up his Dodge, raised his bow, but then sat silently for several long seconds. Mrs. Kellogg waited, curious.

  Andy began to play. It was an odd and repetitive piece, flowing in a modernist style, mostly in D minor but sometimes stepping up into a major key just before returning to the theme, which evolved slowly with each repetition. He stopped abruptly.

  “That’s all there is so far,” he said.

  “You composed that?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on it at night, when I can’t sleep.”

  “My goodness,” she said. “Whatever we can say about your injury, it seems to be turning something loose in your mind.”

  “That’s what it feels like,” said Andy. “The notes have wanted to get out for a long time. They finally did when I was too weak to stop them.”

  Mrs. Kellogg gave him a ride back to the Piedmans’ house after his lesson. She made some small talk but knew better than to attempt complex conversation. After the intense focus required for a music workout, Andy needed quiet and solitude to recover. He watched out the window as they drove past Blocker Auditorium.

  “Next year, they’re going to replace the façade on the auditorium completely,” said Mrs. Kellogg. “It needs it.”

  Andy didn’t respond. He watched the building go by, and was thinking of what Mrs. Kellogg had told him so many, many years ago. Tuck your hand. Tuck it close to your body. Protect your hand. They stopped at the light, at the intersection facing the corner of Murchison Park. To their right was the Diamond-Eight store. Andy looked back over his shoulder, then turned to Mrs. Kellogg.

  “Could we stop a moment?” he asked.

  “Stop where?”

  “Right back there,” said Andy. “If you can turn around. If you don’t mind.”

  Mrs. Kellogg looked to make sure the way was clear, then U-turned the car and pulled over to the side of the street and parked.

  “This is where it happened,” he said.

  “Where you were attacked?”

  “Yes,” Andy said.

  Andy opened the car door and climbed out, then walked to the high fence that shielded the houses behind from the road noise. He stood for several minutes, turning slowly to face different directions. Mrs. Kellogg got out of the car and stood beside him.

  “You’re remembering that night, aren’t you, Andy?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “A little bit. I remember pieces of it, like a movie I saw a long time ago and forgot about. I think it’s all there, somewhere.”

  – 36 –

  Nothing but Bad Choices

  “Can I have another beer?” asked Timothy.

  “Sure,” said Jerry. He looked over at Tank and gestured toward the kitchen with one finger.

  Tank glared, but after a few seconds he got up to do Jerry’s bidding. This was not how he was accustomed to being treated. He’d been holding a man prisoner, and now he was fetching beers for that same man, like some kind of toady.

  Timothy looked tired but defiant. Sensory deprivation had not had the intended effect after all. They had been at this a long time. At first, Timothy wouldn’t speak a word to him, so Jerry had pretended to give up and leave the house. The beers went back into the refrigerator, the donuts went away, and Timothy was locked in his room.

  After a couple of hours, Tank dragged him back out, and they tried again. This time, Timothy was willing to talk. They were making progress. Possibly. He ate the donuts and drank his beer. He also requested his boots back, and Jerry complied. Timothy sat, inscrutable, and listened to Jerry’s pitch.

  An open briefcase sat on the small table between them.

  “I hope you’re not too mad at your grandfather,” said Jerry. “He was desperate. He cares about you, because you’re all the family he has left.”

  The four-day growth of sparse beard on Timothy’s chin made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

  “Tell me again about the house,” he said.

  “It’s more than a just a nice house,” said Jerry. “It’s twenty-two acres beside Lake Concho. With a boathouse and a good motorboat. You know how much your dad loved boats.”

  “Yep. He loved
those things. He died in one.”

  “I know. That was really, really unfortunate,” said Jerry, “and I’m sure you’ve missed him since he passed away. I know I do.”

  “I don’t think ‘passed away’ is quite the expression,” said Timothy. “If I’m remembering right, my dad got his head knocked off when he hit a barge in the dark. He was driving a boat full speed on an unlit river, drunk. Took two other guys with him. They passed away too.”

  “It was a tragedy,” said Jerry. “But he was a good man. He cared about his family, and loved his boats and his lake house. It’s a perfect place to get away from everything, or to raise a family, for kids to run wild. Paradise.”

  “And old Grandpops is going to let me have it all, if I sign.”

  “All yours. Lock, stock, and barrel. You wouldn’t even have to pay the taxes on it. The company—your company, our company—would take care of all of that.”

  Tank came back in with two more beers and plopped them both on the table. Jerry hadn’t quite finished his first beer yet, but he opened the new one and took a sip. Timothy, keeping eyes fixed on Jerry, picked up his beer, opened it dramatically, and drank several swallows. He belched.

  “Another donut?” asked Jerry.

  “No, thanks. A couple of steak dinners might be nice.”

  “It can be arranged.”

  “I bet it can,” said Timothy. “Grandpops is a fucking millionaire. He could afford a thousand steak dinners and feed them all to his German shepherds, right?”

  “He’s done very well, yes.”

  “Then there’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Timothy, picking up a multi-page document from inside the briefcase. “I just sign this, and the big house is mine. The big-ass motorboat is mine. And …” He picked up a second document. “I sign this one, and I own a fucking oil company.”

  “Not own it outright, but you’d be a full partner,” said Jerry. “Along with your grandfather and a couple of other people.”

  “Including you,” said Timothy.

  “Yes, including me,” said Jerry. “I have a lot of experience in business, just like your father did. You can learn it, and in a few years, you’ll be right there in the middle of things, making deals.”