Old Dog

by Roy F. Chandler

  Larry hesitated only an instant before adding, "I think Adam also expects to save us a lot of suffering and pointless expense. We ought to keep that in mind when we are criticizing him."

  "It still isn't right, and we ought to have the minister out here to talk to him."

  Larry snorted. "Old Dog would eat the man alive. My Lord, Arlis, Adam has been polishing his arguments for decades. He would quote scripture that the reverend might never have examined. Dog would use a dozen different religions for support and about a hundred philosophical opinions. He would list legal precedents and . . . why on earth would you want to shove our pastor into that buzzsaw?"

  His wife clattered dishes angrily. She had no arguable position. She just knew it was wrong, just like everybody else knew killing yourself was terrible. She shuddered in revulsion.

  Larry said, "I'm going over and tell him about the TV."

  "Well, see if he would like some nice vegetable soup. It might make him feel stronger."

  "I'll ask, but all he gets down are milkshakes, says they'll keep him going . . . long enough."

  Old Dog was still groggy from Doc Klein's elixer. When he had come home, he had hit it hard, pleased to be knocked out while the authorities worked out the unexpected exposure of Bat Stailey.

  Wrapped in his robe and a fluffy king-size blanket, Dog was content to porch sit and ponder his timing. He had awakened with a deep, lung-ripping cough that took a lot of inhaler pumping to subdue. He choked up matter and, when he looked, blood specks were plain to see. They had not appeared before. Time was marching on, and he did not wish to discover it was later than he thought.

  What a farce it would be after all his talk to keel over and wake up pinned to a hospital bed until he died. What a bummer! It was about time to make his move.

  He was still surprisingly mobile. He had hiked and hustled around pretty vigorously last night. For a moment he saw again Hunch's midair halt and Clout's slow sag and still twitching finger on his empty pistol's trigger.

  The remembering was neither pleasant nor morbid. Old Dog supposed he must be coarse and calloused to remain un-traumatized after killing two human beings, but he expected the world really was a better place without Hunch and Clout. He had cleared garbage from the path of human progress, and he suffered no remorse.

  Of course, jailing Bat Stailey had been the bigger victory. Authorities were waiting for their shot at Bat, and they would not miss their chance. They would prosecute with fervor. By the time Stailey got out of prison he would be old and out of action. Not quite as satisfying as shooting him dead, but good enough. Old Dog wondered how many bodies the racketeer had caused to be buried and how many lives he had destroyed through his promotion of about every human vice known. Probably about as many as putting Stailey away would save. The concept was a comfortable equation.

  Bat Stailey could not have attained his eminence in gangland hierarchy without making his own bones. Somewhere, back along Stailey's criminal trail, moldered the remains of those he had murdered for gain. The law knew it. Some of the public recognized the certainty of the elegant Don's violently criminal road, but the evidence would never be forthcoming. Crime bosses like Bat Stailey were armored by layers of fellow conspirators. Hit men eliminated witnesses, and clever lawyers out-papered underpaid and understaffed, inexperienced prosecutors. The Staileys of organized crime were rarely pulled down.

  But, Old Dog Carlisle had gotten the bastard! Dog rocked in some contentment. Only he would ever know, unless . . . Dog gave thought to certain improbabilities.

  Larry came over excited. He started talking before he reached the first step.

  "You see the news, Dog?"

  Larry did not wait for an answer. "A little was on the eight o'clock news, but your light was out so I figure you missed it.

  "There was good coverage this morning. Timmy wanted to wake you up, but I got him off to school.

  "Bat Stailey's been arrested for murder, and it looks like they've got him cold. They even showed the gun on TV. Stailey strangled one guy, they said, and shot another. There was dope, too. The DEA and maybe the FBI are in on it. They got in because of the dope and the strangled guy's motorcycle being registered out of state. Crossing state lines made it a federal rap, I guess.

  Old Dog made his voice surprised. The pleasure was easy. "So they finally got Stailey. About time."

  Larry said, "I'll move your TV out here, and we'll catch the noon news." He came back lugging the set, trailing cord and cable. He perched the TV where they could both see it.

  "You want 8, 21, or 27?"

  "Get 27. They've got a Perry County weatherman, and we ought to stay loyal."

  They were early, so Larry muted the sound.

  "Have a bad night, Adam?"

  "Nope, had a great night. Doc Klein's secret potion put me out for hours." Dog chuckled, "I didn't know my bladder could last that long."

  Larry examined his brother critically. "You going to see Doc again soon, Dog?"

  There was worry in his brother's words, and Old Dog supposed he did look like some sort of road kill.

  "Not much use, Larry. Doc's sending me up a big bottle of his good stuff. I'll take it with me when I go."

  "God, Adam . . ."

  "Come on, brother. Everybody gets his turn. If I could live, I would. Hell, Larry, in a way I'm having the best of it. I get to pick the way I die, where I choose to die, and, with some big limitations, exactly when."

  "You could just stay here, Adam. You could be in the Bloomfield cemetery with the rest of our family. That's where we all should be."

  Old Dog rocked, reviewing thoughts he had studied out years before.

  "I could do that." He chuckled, "Though Arlis would prefer just rolling me down the bank into the ice pond."

  "Oh, Adam . . ."

  "But, I want to try one last adventure, Larry. I want to struggle and chew at one final sort of crazy goal that not a person in one hundred thousand would even consider. If I make it, I'll lay back and pass over feeling content with the life I had."

  His brother smiled a little. "You make it sound so good I want to come along."

  "Well, now that I'm this close, I'm sort of looking forward to it. It'll be tough, so I can't wait too long, but . . . OK, here's the news. Turn it up loud."

  The segment was big time. CNN would make mention, and newspapers across the land might touch on Bat Stailey's arrest. Stailey was no John Gotti, but his name was known. The announcer put heart into his reading.

  "In a stunning strike, Pennsylvania State Police, FBI, and DEA officers arrested Batey R. Stailey of RD Linglestown, charging him with the murder of two men. The bodies were . . ."

  The visuals were damning. The eye of the camera did not blink. Hunch's body was mercifully covered, but a still of Clout, his empty pistol, slide locked open, near his hand was included. Officials with vests and jackets lettered Police, FBI, and DEA milled and were shown poking into things.

  A large packet believed to be marijuana was displayed for the camera, and a photographer caught a clip of a heavy bellied detective carrying the alleged murder weapon clutched in surgical forceps.

  Larry said, "Maybe they got his fingerprints on the gun. Maybe he had it in his pocket."

  "I've read that despite crime novels, police don't often get prints off of guns."

  "They've got him this time, Dog. No way he can slip out."

  Larry startled Old Dog saying, "That'll teach him to beat up on a Perry County Carlisle."

  "What?"

  "I figure hammering on you turned his luck bad, Dog."

  Dog's heart rate returned toward normal. "If that was it, brother, it sure worked slow. That whipping happened more than two years ago, and Stailey didn't do it himself."

  "Doesn't matter, Dog. They've always said, 'Don't mess with a Perry Countian.'"

  Old Dog asked, "Who says that, Larry?" His brother had given him a jolt with the punching-out connection. It would be best to play it on out until the fun was gone.


  "I heard Grandpa say it."

  "I never did."

  "Grandpa was telling about some of the old settlers who were first into these mountains."

  "It was part of Cumberland County back then."

  "I know that, Dog. It's the idea that messing with people from up here got you hurt that counts."

  "Stailey messed with a lot of people I imagine, only this time he got caught."

  "Dumb thing for him to do."

  "That'll probably be his defense."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Stailey will claim he is obviously too smart to have killed two people in his own yard, so he is a victim of some sort of setup."

  "Nobody will buy that"

  "You just said it was really dumb, brother. Others will agree, and Stailey will have the best attorneys."

  Talking like that made Old Dog nervous. Stailey was slick. Could he get out of a net this tight?

  Old Dog did not really see how.

  Doc Klein brought his elixir in person. He pulled an immense Cadillac close to Old Dog's steps and climbed out, looking critically about.

  Old Dog and Timmy were waiting for the six o'clock news. On this second day, Bat Stailey was still the big story.

  Old Dog lowered his moccasin clad feet and rose with an audible grunt.

  "Holy hell. Lay out a carpet. Doc Klein hasn't stepped off pavement in forty years."

  Klein asked, "Where's your outhouse, Dog? It's a long trip up here."

  "We don't have an outhouse, Doctor Klein. Uncle Dog's got real plumbing." Timmy was quick with his defense. "He's got a microwave and air conditioning. Uncle Dog's got everything a man needs."

  Old Dog pointed inside, knowing Klein was already familiar with the place. They shook hands in passing, the doctor's eyes evaluating Dog's increasingly leaned frame and hollowed features.

  "Take your time, Doc. We'll wait."

  "At my age, everything takes time. Sit down before you collapse. You look awful."

  Timmy said, "I don't think you look so bad, Uncle Dog."

  "You don't? Well, I ought to look awful. I feel bad enough." Old Dog's slap on his nephew's shoulder belied the harshness of his words.

  Klein returned and chose a seat. "Get the package off the seat, will you, Tim? It's for your uncle."

  "Doc, that's the biggest, ugliest automobile I've ever seen. Fins? It must be fifty years old." Old Dog's tone was disdainful.

  Klein sounded proud. He savored his description. "That's a 1956 Caddie, Dog. A gen-u-wine classic. Nobody makes 'em like that anymore."

  "Thank heaven. It ever get past a gas station without stopping?"

  "Burns a little, but hell, Dog, gas is cheaper now, compared to income, than it's ever been."

  "Compared to whose income? You're not politically correct on this one, Doc."

  "When have I ever been?"

  They rumbled appreciatively.

  "So, how are you doing, Dog?"

  "A lot of notches on my short timer's stick, Doc."

  Klein remembered rear echelon types almost ready to leave Korea walking around showing their short timer sticks with carved-in notches counting the days before rotation to the States. He expected Old Dog was about through his tour.

  "Much pain?"

  "A hell of a lot sometimes, but I'll stick around a while yet"

  "Cramps?"

  "Those, too, mostly in my legs. In my gut sometimes."

  "Don't let it catch you, Dog. A man can get awful close to going down without realizing it"

  "I'm watching. Funny thing is, I can still get around some if I grit my teeth and go at it"

  "You still living on milkshakes?"

  "Chocolate shakes, Doc. Other flavors don't set as well."

  "I'll get you in the medical journals under Miracle Diet."

  "Want a shake now, Uncle Dog?" Timmy was ready.

  "Yeah, that'd be fine, Tim. You want a shake, Doc?"

  "God no, they're full of cholesterol."

  Tim sped inside. Klein added, "Timmy seems to be taking it well."

  "Yeah, he's doing good. Hauling it out in the open and being willing to talk about it gets everyone relaxed and more natural."

  Old Dog grinned, "Except Arlis. She gets all shook, so when she comes around I talk about rotting away and my guts being eaten alive by raging cancer cells that look like miniature maggots. Gets her every time."

  Klein groaned. "You're a trial, Old Dog."

  Dog grinned, "It's my duty, Doc."

  The news came on, and Old Dog turned up the volume. "I can't wait to hear the Bat Stailey part, Doc. A couple of his thugs beat hell out of me a few years back. In fact, I'm sticking around in part to see Stailey take his fall."

  Unbelievable! A man had come forward and admitted to the killings, including planting the dope and the pistol. All done before Bat Stailey had come home, he claimed.

  Old Dog set his shake aside, untasted.

  The confession had been distributed on videotape to the TV stations. The police and federal authorities got the news secondhand. The apparent murderer turned himself in to a TV reporter.

  Old Dog said, "Isn't that hell?"

  Larry came running over from his house. "Can you believe that, Dog? Hi Doc. That Louseball Stailey has done it again. He's home free."

  Klein asked, "Why are you surprised? Stailey's people are probably squeezing the guy's father's head or maybe they are paying for his wife's heart-lung transplant."

  Larry claimed, "Well, the cops will tell if the bum confessing is lying. There will be stuff he doesn't know. "

  Old Dog roused to say, "He'll claim he was on dope and can't remember a lot of things. His lawyers—I'll bet they are big, important guys—will refuse to let him say more."

  Doc Klein added, "They'll plead that the dead guys were rats that deserved what they got. Hell, the jury will probably agree. The guy will do a couple of years and come out with big bucks in a foreign bank."

  Old Dog said, "God!"

  Larry had an offering. "How about this: Clout garroted the dead biker and opened up with his pistol on the confessee. So, the confessee killed him in self-defense and, hating Bat Stailey, he planted the pistol and the biker's dope in Stailey's house. He called in and then ran for it—but of course his conscience rose and he had to confess . . . because it was the right thing to do."

  Doc Klein said, "By gosh, I believe that's what really happened. I see it now. The poor guy . . . and poor innocent Mister Batey Stailey."

  Old Dog had nothing to say. He picked up his shake and sipped at it, his eyes distant, as if he were thinking.

  Chapter 18

  Timmy was in school, Larry was visiting customers, and Arlis had a meeting in Newport. Old Dog could work without interference.

  Dog found himself laboring with a coldly determined anger that fueled unsuspected energies. That quick, almost overnight, Bat Stailey had produced a confessed killer, willing to take whatever heat the nation's legal systems could deliver. What sort of specimen would take the rap for Bat Stailey?

  On the other hand, why not? Serve-anybody defense lawyers might win on an imaginative self-defense plea—about like Larry had dreamed up.

  More likely, a comfortable plea bargain would be arranged. The "volunteer" would plead guilty to simple manslaughter, do eighteen months and some community service, perhaps a heavy fine (which Stailey's organization would pay with pocket change) and be free to enjoy whatever rewards the mob had promised. Bat Stailey would never be in the picture again.

  Well, almost never. Instead of his attorneys quietly closing out the paperwork involved in his arrest, Stailey would personally appear at the courthouse in Harrisburg. The Teflon Don desired a moment in the sun. He would, as he had before, stand on the courthouse steps and declare his outrage at his false arrest and the police vendetta against him. The press would be there, sucking it up to vomit forth on radio, TV, and in news columns. Old Dog planned on providing a better headline.

  From among t
he guns stacked in closet corners, Old Dog chose a battered but serviceable double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun. The old cannon had been around since he and Larry were young men. They had long owned better guns, and the double had not been fired in years. It would shoot as well as ever, Old Dog was certain. He examined the bores and clicked the triggers. The internal hammers fell fast and solid sounding.

  He held the shotgun in their workbench vise while he wrapped electrical tape tightly around the wooden forearm and barrels. Then he hacksawed away all but fourteen inches of the barrels and all but the butt stock behind the grip. The result was a mean looking sawed-off shotgun capable of being easily hidden.

  Without barrel choke, whatever shot load was fired would spread rapidly. The sawed-off still had to be pointed right, but whatever it hit got hit all over. Citizens who howled about Uzis, AK 47s, and 9mm pistols in the hands of the lawless should be grateful that the same villains did not prefer shotguns. If they did, the street carnage might double or triple.

  The law could not confine Bat Stailey, so Old Dog would eliminate him. He could attempt that where an ordinary citizen could not because death hovered in the wings and would soon take him. He was already beyond punishing. Bat Stailey's demise, would after all, cap Old Dog's newly constructed monument to society.

  Of course, that same society would brand him a vigilante murderer. Media outcry would condemn the illegal taking up of arms against the bad guy. Their plea would be for more and better laws, courts, judges—the very things their continual carping, nitpicking, and ridiculing had made grossly ineffectual.

  In Old Dog's opinion, the American free press was both blessing and curse. Few would deny its necessity to expose and explain, but the assorted media also inflamed and exacerbated. It exaggerated and distorted. It was usually just a little bit incorrect, and at times it flat-out lied.

  To get the story, the media inflated and ignored common sense, courtesy, privacy, security, and consequences. Responsibility, Old Dog believed, was positioned far down the media priority scale.

  The news media would be right to savage anyone who shotgunned another. Old Dog found no fault with that. Unfortunately, the same vehement critics were rarely as willing to pile on the bitter adjectives when mentioning the perpetually immoral—the mobsters, the sleazy lawyers, or the political bloodsuckers.