Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

  Apollo muttered “idiots” one more time under his breath, then disappeared into his bedroom.

  – 45 –

  He Just Plum Got Away

  Harold Foreman, Assistant DA, was losing control of his meeting. Several people kept chiming in and talking over each other, particularly the dads.

  “Folks, this hearing is on the record even if it’s not formal,” said Foreman. “We need to keep it orderly. My primary goal is to talk to the boys, to try and clear up any rumors and misconceptions concerning the incident in Murchison Park.”

  “Not all the boys are here,” said Sam Rhodes. “I think that says …”

  “Mr. Rhodes, I appreciate your attendance,” said Foreman. “But since you are not a witness, I would like you to keep your thoughts to yourself unless we need to hear from you. That applies to everyone here. Please. We need to keep it moving. It’s within my authority to clear the room if I need to.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rhodes.

  Joe Gittelman and Chris Rhodes sat at a table with the attorney Ben Carr, who had papers spread out over at least half the surface, though no one was sure what they were for. Everyone else except the prosecutor and court reporter sat in chairs behind them.

  “Very well,” said Foreman. “As Mr. Rhodes has been kind enough to point out, we are missing a couple of our primary witnesses. One of the alleged victims, Mr. Zamara, has chosen not to attend this morning, which is his right. The attorney hired by his family, Jack Porter, is here observing the proceedings. Is that correct, Mr. Porter?”

  “That’s right,” said Porter from the back of the room. He sat next to Simon Frost, who looked particularly pale and unimportant. Next to Simon sat Peggy Zamara, hard-faced and stoic.

  “I said before, I would appreciate it if everyone would let the boys tell their side of the incident without interruption or comment. Others may get a chance to speak later.”

  He walked over to the table where the boys sat. Although it was a loosely structured gathering, Foreman decided he needed to make it a bit more like court to impress on these people the seriousness of the situation.

  He continued his questions for Joe Gittelman.

  “Joe, you were saying you witnessed the fight between Del Ray Dustin and Andrew Zamara. Were you involved also?”

  “No, sir,” said Joe. “I mean, yes, I was there. I tried to break it up.”

  “Did you strike or kick Mr. Zamara?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you see Del Ray strike Mr. Zamara?”

  “Yeah, uh … yes, sir. The two of them were fighting, and then he … Mr. Zamara … fell down on the ground.”

  “Did you see Del Ray kick him when he was on the ground?”

  “Yes, sir. He kicked the guy several times. I yelled at him to stop, but he kept doing it. Finally, I grabbed him and pulled him off.”

  Foreman turned to Chris Rhodes. “Chris, do you agree with what Joe is saying?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chris. “When I came back, Del Ray was kicking the guy on the ground, and Joe was yelling ‘stop.’”

  “What do you mean ‘came back’? Where were you?”

  “I was across the street. I followed the other guy when he ran away.”

  “Why did you follow him?” asked Foreman.

  “He … I mean … he had hit me and said some things to me, so I went after him. But I decided he wasn’t worth it and came back.”

  “I see. Did you also attempt to get Del Ray to stop the attack?”

  “I yelled at him to stop, yes, sir,” said Chris. “He … I mean Del Ray … was just going crazy, and I was afraid he’d really hurt the guy.”

  “So you did not participate in the fight?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I got in a little shoving with the other guy before, but I never hit the man who was on the ground.”

  “You mention the other guy,” said Foreman. “Are you referring to Mr. Frost?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The court reporter clicked at his keys while Foreman flipped a couple of pages on his notebook.

  “Okay, Chris,” said Foreman. “One thing that Mr. Frost told the police is that you or one of the other boys broke his musical instrument, his oboe. Is that true?”

  “I think I might have accidentally stepped on it when he dropped it. When we were shoving each other and stuff. But I didn’t break it on purpose.”

  “He said one of the boys removed the instrument from its case, struck him with it, and then smashed it on the ground. Was he not telling the truth?”

  “No, sir. I think it might have fallen out when he dropped it. But if I broke it, it was by accident. When he was fighting with me.”

  Foreman turned over a new page in his notes. “All right, I want to cover another point. The wallet. Chris, did you take Mr. Zamara’s wallet out of his jacket?”

  Chris glanced at his father, then looked back at the prosecutor. “Uh … no, I think that was Del Ray.”

  The court reporter spoke up. “Excuse me, Mr. Foreman. I didn’t hear the young man’s response.”

  “Speak up, please. Did you take Mr. Zamara’s wallet?”

  “No, sir,” said Chris, louder. “I think Del Ray may have taken it. But I didn’t see him do it.”

  “Joe, how about you?” said Foreman. “Did you take the gentleman’s wallet out of his jacket?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Joe.

  “Do you think it was Del Ray?”

  “I believe so, yes, sir,” said Joe. “I didn’t see him do it, but that must be what happened. Me and Chris got in the truck first, then Del Ray came afterward. He must have had it with him then.”

  “Chris, the police found the wallet in the glove compartment of your pickup truck. Any idea how it got there?”

  “Not really, sir. I think Del Ray must have put it there at some point. He got in the truck last and sat on the right side. Later, when we went to get donuts, he stayed in the truck a couple of minutes. He probably put the wallet in the glove compartment then. I never saw a wallet until the police officer found it a few days ago. I don’t use the glove compartment for anything, so I never saw it.”

  “Mr. Zamara told police he had about fifty dollars in his wallet,” said Foreman. “Did you ever see any money?”

  “No,” said Chris. “But now that I think about it, Del Ray was flashing some money around later on, when we went to the donut place on 8th Street. I remember thinking, ‘Where did Del Ray get all that money?’”

  “Joe, do you have any recollection like that?” asked Foreman.

  “Uh … yes, sir. I think so. Yeah, it seems like Del Ray was waving some money around when we went to Southern Girl.”

  “Is that the donut shop?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought it was funny, too, him suddenly having all that cash. I figured he must have just got paid from his job. Having all that money suddenly.”

  The prosecutor jotted down a few more notes, then looked at his watch.

  “Folks, I think we’re wrapping this thing up. Now I’d like to know if either of the attorneys has any comment.”

  “No, Mr. Foreman,” said Ben Carr. “Though I would like to make it clear on the record that one of the alleged victims has chosen not to be here today. And neither has the primary alleged assailant, even though, it is my understanding, he is under subpoena.”

  “We were not able to serve the papers on him,” said Foreman.

  “That’s because he got plum away,” said a voice from the back. “He’s the one you ought to be talking to.” It was Joe Gittelman’s father.

  “Strike that last comment, please,” said Foreman. “Mr. Porter, do you have anything to add?”

  Porter leaned over and whispered to Simon, who nodded.

  “I have nothing, Mr. Foreman,” said Porter, “but Mr. Frost here would like to say a few words, if that’s all right.”

  “Very well,” said the prosecutor.

  “I just wanted to say …,” began Simon.

  “Mr.
Frost, could you please come forward so the court reporter can hear you?”

  Peggy caught Simon’s eye and mouthed the words “you can do it.” Simon nodded to her and walked around the table to the front of the room, facing away from the two boys and their attorney.

  “I just want to say that these young men here have been lying from beginning to end. They attacked me that night, and they attacked Andy Zamara. It was not provoked, except they apparently believed we were homosexuals strolling through the park, and that made them mad, for some reason.”

  The lawyer Ben Carr spoke up. “Mr. Frost, at your deposition in June I remember that you said …”

  “May I talk, please?” said Simon.

  “Let him speak his turn,” said Foreman.

  “Thank you,” said Simon. “There was no fight in Murchison Park. We were attacked. Andy defended himself. I tried to also, but I was being beaten by two guys who were bigger than me, and I ran away. I’m not proud of that, but I didn’t want to end up like Andy. And that guy there …” He turned and pointed right at Chris Rhodes. “He took my oboe—my Lorée oboe, which cost me over four hundred dollars—he took it out of its case and hit me with it across the forehead so that I bled, then smashed it to pieces on the sidewalk. It was no accident.”

  All the eyes at the front of the room glared at him, but Simon was so sick of hearing horseshit that he didn’t care anymore.

  “I would like to add that a few days before the hearing last June, a group of young men I didn’t know approached me outside the business where I work. They threatened me and told me that if I told about what happened in the park that night, they would kill me. I believed them. My fiance was pregnant, and I was going to get married. I was scared, so I said I didn’t see much. It wasn’t my best moment, but I can’t just sit here today and listen to lies from hoodlums.”

  “Mr. Frost, you went on the record …”

  “They beat Andy Zamara till he was in a coma. It wasn’t just that guy who’s not here. All of them participated. Andy was in the hospital for two weeks. Now he has trouble talking and can’t play in the orchestra anymore. He was the smartest man I ever knew, and the best musician, and they made him retarded.”

  “Well …,” said Harold Foreman, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

  Joe Gittelman leaned over and whispered to Chris. “That is one dead queer.”

  “Yep,” Chris whispered back.

  – 46 –

  Grandpops Will Fix It

  Timothy’s stomach was cramping, and he felt sick. Was it the water? It was rainwater and should have been clean. But for the past hour he had been sopping up puddles of water with his shirt to squeeze into his mouth, and as he walked along the bottom of the ditch, the puddles got smaller and the water tasted fouler.

  In midafternoon, Timothy came to a highway. The wash he had been following went under the road through a culvert, so he climbed up to the road and looked left and right. It was a rural two-lane highway with faded stripes, not heavily used. He had no idea which way to go. He was tired beyond caring, weak, and now experienced waves of pain from his abdomen up to his rib cage. He was also hungry. Really, really hungry. For days, he’d eaten only white bread and then topped it off with donuts and a couple of beers. He was reaching his limit.

  He hoped he wouldn’t throw up the water he’d managed to drink, but it might happen. It hurt to walk, so he sat down on the road for a while. The late-afternoon sun was brutal. He climbed back down into the wash and took refuge inside the large corrugated-steel culvert. What now?

  Time passed. He needed to get moving, but he felt too rotten. Timothy curled up in the pipe and dozed.

  There was a sound. Swooshing, far away, growing closer. He raised his head and listened. A motor. It was a car or truck, and it was coming this way. He climbed out of the pipe and up out of the ditch and stood on the road. He squinted west into the sun, then turned his head to look the other way.

  In the distance, sun glinted on a windshield. The sound of a car engine grew louder, and the vehicle came into view. It was blue and polished, a high-horsepower muscle car, judging from the deep rumble. Timothy raised his arms and waved.

  As the car approached, the driver saw him and slowed down. Timothy suddenly worried that he looked too dirty, hairy, and awful, and not a safe prospect for a lift. He kept waving. As the car got closer, he saw it was a late-model Javelin, and inside was a young man with a crew cut, eyeing him warily. Would he stop? If Timothy were in this man’s shoes, driving out here in the middle of nowhere, he probably wouldn’t. But maybe he could at least ask the young man to send help, if he could communicate that.

  The car pulled over to the shoulder and stopped, and the young man rolled down his window. He was a big guy, with gymnasium muscles bulging from a white T-shirt. Scrawny, malnourished Timothy Kaufman was no threat.

  “You need help?” the man asked.

  “I need to get to a phone and call somebody,” said Timothy.

  “Okay. Town is about five miles back that way. I have to go up the road a couple of miles and take care of something, but I’ll be back, if you want a ride then.”

  “Can I just ride with you?” asked Timothy. “I’m in really shit shape.”

  “Sure, I guess. Get in.”

  Timothy walked around to the passenger side and climbed into the Javelin.

  “So, what happened to you?” askd the young man.

  “I …” Timothy thought about it. He didn’t want to go into the details, not with a stranger. What could he say? I was kidnapped and had a shotgun pointed at me every time I took a leak. No, this was not the person or the place for a tell-all.

  “I was hiking … around my uncle’s land yesterday. I went way too far and got turned around, and now I’m completely lost. I ran out of food and lost my canteen. I’d have died if it wasn’t for the rain.”

  “Where’s your uncle’s house?”

  “Near Wink.”

  “Gee whiz, you are lost. That’s pretty far. The nearest town from here is Autry. I think about a hundred people live there. Anyway, they have phones, and you can call your uncle. I can take you back there.”

  “Please. Thanks.” The Javelin U-turned, and Timothy settled back in the front seat, enjoying the novelty of the ride after two days of walking. He looked around at the desert landscape, now livened by the recent watering. It was funny how fast this dead land came to life after a rain. In a few days, opportunistic desert flowers would be blooming.

  In a short time, they reached the tiny community of Autry. The town had a café and truck stop, and a few other buildings here and there. A lot of them were abandoned and derelict, roofs caved in. Brown weeds were dotted among the white rocks scattered on the dry ground. The Javelin pulled up in front of the truck stop.

  “They have a phone in there,” the young man said.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Timothy said.

  Inside was a pay phone on the wall. The only person there was a female clerk with a bright red apron and multiple chins. Timothy had no money.

  “Do you know the number for the police?” Timothy asked.

  “The number for the sheriff is right above the phone,” said the clerk. “Or you can just dial zero and ask for the Winkler County Sheriff’s Office. It’s a free call.”

  Timothy went to the pay phone and picked up the receiver. After a few seconds, he heard a dial tone. He hesitated, then hung up again. He needed to think carefully about his next move. He tried to picture himself telling his story to a county deputy. He picked up the receiver again and dialed zero.

  “Operator.”

  “Hello, I need to make a collect call to San Angelo, Texas.”

  “I’ll connect you with the San Angelo operator. Please hold.”

  Clicks and more clicks, then a more remote female voice.

  “Operator.”

  “Hi, I’d like to make a collect call to San Angelo. Person to person.”

  “What is the number, please?”


  “I don’t have the number, but it’s a business. It’s Daisy Kay Drilling.”

  “Hold, please.” More clicks, then the operator came back on. “I have a Daisy Kay Workover and Drilling.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Who is the party calling, please?”

  “Timothy. Timothy Kaufman.”

  “And who is the call for?”

  “Pinky Kaufman.”

  “Hold, please.”

  He heard the phone ringing. He hoped Pops would still be at the office. After a few minutes, his grandfather’s gruff voice came on the line.

  “Timothy?”

  “Hi, Grandpops.”

  “Timothy, are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m okay. I’m in a little town called …” What did the young man say? “Autry … a town called Autry. Hey, Grandpops, we really, really need to talk.”

  “Oh, thank God,” said Pinky.

  – 47 –

  A Major Criminal Enterprise

  Frank Hendrix, district supervisor for the Duro Municipal Water Department, wanted to be the one watching from the bed of the pickup truck. Tony Escocito drove, while Frank stood as tall as he could, steadying himself on the pipe rack. They started from one end of Saturn Lane and cruised slowly. Frank scanned the properties for suspicious wet or green places. Today they were going to locate this elusive water leak once and for all.

  They had planned to do this yesterday, but a midday thunderstorm had soaked the ground, making it impossible to spot a leak. Now that the land was dry again, Frank figured a leak would stand out, and he was right. They had just started up the second block when Frank called out.

  “There! Stop.”

  Tony stopped the truck. Around the meter enclosure on one of the undeveloped properties, Frank saw water reflections.

  “Let’s check it out,” said Frank.

  The two men trudged up onto the raised property and soon found themselves standing in shallow mud beside the small concrete dome. They raised the cast-iron cover and saw that the hole was filled to the brim with water.