Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "No weapon?" said Harding.

  Three no's.

  “He’s still got the Colt," he said.

  "And he hasn't gone anywhere," I said. I stepped out onto the balcony and looked along the row of rooms. The green motel sign glowed like a beacon. From behind the motel the interstate roared by like a constant, crashing ocean. The halogen lights on the motel lit the parking lot half-heartedly. Ferguson's rental car was directly below me. I heard Harding order his men and Danielle out of the room. He was concerned Ferguson might return at any time. I leaned on the wobbly balustrade and looked into the failing light. Gainesville glowed a couple miles away. Then I looked back down to the parking lot and saw Sandy Ferguson.

  He was walking slowly, hunched over some. He carried a takeout bag from the Waffle House down the street. He was shorter than I expected him to be. Five eight, maybe five nine, given the poor light. Not a modern day quarterback. He was nuggety. Squat and broad in a way his college photo didn't show. He was one of those QBs who rush as much as they throw. His golden hair had darkened a shade or two and had thinned on top. He wore a forehead like furrowed ground. Despite the mild evening he wore a leather jacket. I assumed to hide a gun. Same reason I was wearing a jacket. He trod heavily through the light of the halogen lamps.

  Then as he stepped into a dark patch he looked up instinctively. He glanced up at his room. And saw me. Nothing registered immediately. I could be a guy in an adjacent room, hanging on the balcony, having a smoke. But he did some kind of arithmetic and figured I was right in front of his room. He stopped moving. He stood in the dim light looking up but me. Then Danielle came out of his room slipping her gun into her holster. Ferguson had seen enough. He dropped his dinner on the black pavement and ran.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I DIDN’T NEED to do any arithmetic. I'd already done it. In retrospect I wished I hadn't. It would have given me more thinking time. But I knew that to my left the balcony passed three more rooms before turning around the side of the building and running down as a fire escape to the area backing onto the freeway. To my right it was eight rooms back to the stairs we had come up in single file. So I jumped off the balcony. Not the smartest move, but definitely the fastest. I only fell five feet before I landed on the roof of Ferguson’s rental car. I made two neat dents in the roof. They'd take some explaining. But I wouldn't be the one doing the explaining, so I didn't care. My feet slipped down the face of the windshield and my knees slammed into the glass. It was hardy stuff. It didn't give an inch. My knees screamed. As I slid off the hood I heard Danielle yell for Harding and take off along the balcony. She either wasn't as stupid or she'd had more time to think, but either way she didn't follow me over the edge. She would have done it much more gracefully.

  I took off across the parking lot. I saw Ferguson across the street, running through a vacant lot towards some trees. I ran across and was nearly taken out by a minivan. The driver slammed on his horn to make sure I was okay. I charged across the vacant lot. It was a rectangle of dead grass surrounded by asphalt. Like another motel or restaurant was supposed to go there but had never been built. I ran across the lot until I got to the trees. There were more of them than I had first thought. Now they looked more like woods. It was dark in there. Ferguson could have been five feet in, pointing his gun at me and I wouldn't have known. So I stopped and listened. I heard the angry snap of branches to my right. I tore off into the woods.

  Branches thwacked at my face and arms. Underfoot was a minefield of roots and fallen limbs. I pushed hard for less than a minute then burst out into a small housing subdivision. A neat cul de sac of freshly painted townhouses. I looked around the street. Held my head still and froze my eyes as best I could. I detected movement in a break between two blocks of townhouses and saw Ferguson charge into more woods. I followed. I was closer now. He hadn't gotten through the woods as quickly. He needed to come for a run on City Beach. Or lose a bet with Danielle and spend a week drinking tonic and lime. I chased the noise he made as he bulldozed his way through the foliage. For a minute or two we ran, surrounded by darkness, determined limbs holding us back. Then I burst out into the open again. I was next to some kind of warehouse. Ferguson was stumbling across a lightly used parking lot. I followed him towards a much longer warehouse. It was well lit. Ferguson ran up a ramp and in through a door. I lurched up the ramp and hit the door. A sign on it read: Employees Only. AMF Bowling.

  I flung the door open. I was in a corridor that led into a kitchen. The smell of frying food hit me like a punch in the guts. I ran through the kitchen and out into a room that looked like a bar. I ducked under a space in the bar where it folded over itself. Following the stares of people sitting at high tables enjoying Buds and fries, I ran out of the bar. Into a bowling alley. The thunk of balls on polished wood and the crash of pins echoed around the room. Rows and rows of light polished wood lanes. Machines whirring and spitting out heavy bowling balls. Screens above each lane telling the players just how bad it was. Ferguson had run down onto the lane level and was stumbling across the floor, right where the players were trying to let their balls go. He was heading towards a wall and dead end. His shoes were slipping hopelessly and he was huffing and sweating from his run. His hair was matted with leaves and twigs. I was Clark Gable in comparison. I stepped down onto the smooth lane run up. I didn't apologize for walking across people's lanes. It was pretty clear to all why I was doing it. Besides, for people who spent their Saturday nights bowling, this was sure to be a month's worth of excitement.

  Ferguson glanced to the right down the lanes and saw a utility door that led behind the pins. He redoubled his efforts. It made him slip and slide more. I wasn't exactly Katrina Witt myself. So I grabbed a sparkly green ball that barely fit my fingers and I wound up. I don't bowl. And least not often and never on a Saturday night. But I do know sending the ball down perpendicular to the lanes is poor form. I heard someone say that I couldn't do that, but I begged to differ. I sent it down across the run up and watched all the people dance about getting out the way. I didn’t know if it was a strike or a split but whatever it was, it hit Ferguson in the heels and sent him tail over teakettle. He landed with an ugly thud. I followed the ball and stood with a lane width between us.

  "It's over, Sandy."

  He looked at me. His eyes were dark and sunken. His mouth had the same permanent downward turn that his wife's had. He blinked several times. Then he burst into tears. He sobbed so his whole body shock. He didn't breathe for the longest time, then when he did it was in spasmodic gulps. I didn't want to watch, but I wasn't taking my eyes off him.

  "Leave him alone," said a woman in a pink bowling shirt.

  "Lady, this doesn't concern you," I said.

  A big guy with no hair on his head but a very poorly executed goatee stood up behind the woman. "You don't talk to her like that."

  "Sir, please back away."

  He didn't say anything. He just kept moving towards me.

  "Sir, back away."

  "Bite me," he said.

  Ferguson let out the high-pitched yell. "He said back away!"

  The big man put his hands out and backed away. Not so much at Ferguson's demand as at the Colt .45 he was pointing at the guy. Talk about clearing a room. The balls and pins and beer bottles fell silent. The whole alley emptied out. We were left alone with the whirring of the ball return machines. They rattled and sang. Ferguson was still on the floor. He dropped his hand holding the Colt back into his lap.

  "Are you okay?” I said.

  Ferguson laughed without mirth. "Not for a long time," he said. He was grinning.

  "Why?" I said.

  "Why what?"

  "Why take the Heismans? What did you hope to achieve?"

  “They were mine. I deserved them."

  "I'm pretty sure BJ Baker's has his name on it."

  He laughed again. "BJ Baker. He didn't need it. He came from money. He had everything. What did I have?"

  "You think he was suc
cessful because he won a Heisman?"

  "You think he wasn't?"

  "You had choices; you could've done anything after college. There's more to life than football."

  "Ha! What do you know?"

  "I know."

  "What do you know? You're just one of BJ's stooges."

  "Hardly."

  "So why are you here? Why you after me?"

  "Orlando Washington."

  Ferguson's face shrunk some. "Is he okay?” he said.

  "No thanks to you."

  "I didn't want to hurt him. But he charged me. Jumped out of a wheelchair and charged me."

  "What about Jenny Bellingham?"

  "Her husband's a moron."

  "I agree."

  "He didn't even know what he had."

  We fell silent for a while. I felt a breeze at my back as if someone had come in through the front door.

  "How did you get into BJ Baker's house?"

  "He had a party."

  "You were invited?"

  "Ha, no. It was a charity event. I paid to get in. Cost me five hundred bucks."

  "And you just walked in and grabbed it?"

  “I saw it in the paper. I knew where it was. I walked out by the pool. The room was open so I went in and took it. I had it in a satchel under my suit coat for half an hour before I left."

  I smiled. Not a guest, indeed. "You should have left it at one," I said.

  "Why? My whole life I've got nothing. These guys got everything. It was my time. I'm not hurting anyone, just taking what's mine."

  "People were hurt today."

  "Where?"

  "The fireworks."

  "How did fireworks hurt anyone?"

  "You set them off behind a video screen, as a diversion."

  "So?"

  "So they shot into the screen and the screen exploded. The whole band shell went up."

  "I didn't mean that."

  "The law of unintended consequences."

  "I'm sorry if anyone was hurt. But I'm not sorry I took my trophies."

  "Well, you're done now."

  "Says who?" he said, looking at his gun.

  "Says me." It was Harding. He had his feet splayed and his Glock pointed at Ferguson.

  The other two cops came down from the concourse level, guns drawn. Danielle drifted in across the lanes, stepping deftly over the gutters. They formed a perimeter around Ferguson. I felt my gun under my left wing, but I left it where it was.

  "Put the weapon down and stand up slow," said Harding.

  "I can't," said Ferguson.

  "What's that?" Harding spoke loud and clear.

  "I can’t!” Ferguson yelled.

  "Sir, you need to drop your gun."

  Ferguson looked at me. He was sad and tired. Just like his wife. I couldn't imagine what it had been like for their son growing up.

  "Time to go," I said.

  He nodded his head. He leaned forward and pressed the gun into the floor and pushed himself up. He got on his knees then slowly stood. On his feet he looked delicate. Like he was a cardboard cutout of himself. He held the gun limply by his side.

  "Drop the gun," said Harding.

  Ferguson looked at me.

  "Your son would like to see you," I said.

  He shook his head. "He thinks I'm a failure. He's right."

  "I'm sure he doesn't think that."

  "He deserved a better chance."

  "Sir, I will not ask you again. Drop the weapon,” called Harding.

  “Your wife is worried about you."

  A tear ran down his cheek. "She was something. She really was." He looked off into the distance, twenty-five years into the past. "She deserves to be happy."

  He looked me in the eye. "Will you tell her I love her?"

  "You tell her," I said.

  "Tell her I'm sorry."

  Ferguson lifted the Colt and pointed it at my head.

  Gunshots exploded on either side of me. Ferguson's torso burst in a cloud of red. Four well-trained law enforcement officers with hours on the range hitting the largest visible target as per regulations. Ferguson collapsed. Gunpowder and bloody mist hung in the air. Harding stepped forward and removed the Colt from Ferguson's hand with his foot. He checked the pulse at the neck, as per regulations. The ragged mess that was Ferguson's chest told me everything I needed to know. Harding pronounced him unofficially dead. Official pronouncement could only come from the medical examiner. But it was enough for everyone to holster their weapons. Harding stood and moved to me. He held open my jacket and looked at the piece sitting snugly in its holster. He dropped my jacket, nodded at me, then turned to one of his men.

  "Call it in," he said.

  I turned and strode out of the bowling alley. People were still milling about in the parking lot. Rubbernecking. I ignored them and walked around the side of the building and back into the woods. I went about ten paces in. Then I stopped, put my hands on my knees and threw up.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  THE GAINESVILLE PD conducted interviews in the bar of the bowling alley. It was supposed to be a sports bar. It was more like a hospital cafeteria with televisions. I got interviewed. Then Danielle. Then the cops. The alley was closed down for the night so I couldn't even get a drink. The beer taps behind the bar mocked me. I was thirsty and hungry and tired. But I wasn't sleeping or eating anytime soon. My throat and eyes burned dry.

  The medical examiner arrived and made his pronouncement. Sandy Ferguson was dead. Crime scene guys in white coveralls arrived to take photographs. I promised some cop from Gainesville PD that I would visit the station house before I left. The shooting was righteous, he said, but they wanted to make sure all the T's were crossed. It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone get shot dead. I'd even done it myself. At no time did I feel like describing the event as righteous. I didn't bother mentioning that to the cop.

  Harding was talking to the crime scene guys when we left. A patrol officer gave us a ride back to the motel in his Interceptor. Definitely more legroom. He dropped us in the parking lot of the motel and turned right around. I wasn't sure why he'd taken us there. Perhaps he thought we'd come to the motel in our own car. But we'd come in Harding's Charger. I didn't think to mention it.

  Danielle and I stood in the dark parking lot looking at each other. She looked tired. I must've looked like hell warmed up in a microwave. There was a fleet of patrol cars all parked nose in around Ferguson's rental. The door to his room was open. Cops were milling about like cops do at crime scenes. One was unspooling some yellow and black tape. Crime scene, do not cross. We wandered up the steps to the second floor. Walked along the balcony. All the drapes were closed in each room. We got to the door and a young guy in uniform turned full on to block our way. He had smooth skin, like he'd never yet had to shave. He gave us an easy smile. He was there to stop rubberneckers.

  Danielle flipped open her badge. “We’re with Harding," she said.

  He looked at both of us. He'd been listening to the radio chatter. Probably watched us just get out of the cruiser in the parking lot below. He nodded and turned, allowing us through.

  The room was dimly lit by cheap table lamps. Another cop was wandering around the room. It was a short trip. The two beds took up most of the real estate. The neat bedspreads were polyester green. A color that no one would steal. The cop was looking at the bathroom. There was nothing to see. He looked at us as we stepped into the room, glancing at his partner by the door, then back at us.

  “Waiting on crime scene guys," he said.

  "We just wanted to have a look," Danielle said.

  The cop nodded and scooted around us.

  He nodded at Danielle. "Don't touch anything," he said as he leaned against the door jamb.

  There wasn't a lot to touch. The cowboy hat was still on the bed. The six Heismans were lined up. I looked at Danielle. I had a sudden urge to not be in the room. To not be in Gainesville. To get a drink. Danielle was looking at the Heismans. She put her fingertip on one
of the statues. Touched the statue’s face. Lightly ran her fingertip down the Heisman's face. Ed Smith's face. Sandy Ferguson's face.

  She turned to me. "Let's get out of here," she said.

  She dropped her finger from the trophy and edged between me and the bed. She got to the door and the two cops parted for her. She asked them if one of them could give us a ride back to the University campus. I thought they were going to arm wrestle for the privilege. I took one last look around the vanilla motel room. Then I picked up one of the Heisman trophies and slipped it under my jacket, below my holster.

  The young cop drove us the few miles back to the campus. The lot was mostly empty. We thanked the cop and got in the Mustang and followed him back to the interstate. I edged left up onto I-75 and hit the gas hard. We did forty miles in twenty minutes and pulled off the freeway near Ocala. I parked in a Best Western, got a room at reception and asked about a bar. It was loud and busy. A band was in the back playing country music. I ordered four beers. We each slammed one at the bar, and carried the other to the dance floor. We danced. We drank. The music was loud and the vibe was lively. Danielle danced with a few guys in cowboy hats. It was too loud to talk. She was sweating so much she looked like she'd run a marathon.

  When it got late we stumbled back to the room. We each took a shower in the dark. The air con rattled over the sound of the interstate traffic. I lay on my back under cool cotton sheets and watched the lights play on the ceiling. Danielle climbed in and crushed up against me. She sobbed for half an hour against my chest. I lay still until she fell asleep.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  THE SUNSHINE STREAMED in my office. Anyone who sat in the visitor’s chair would be like an ant under a magnifying glass. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Ron had been up on the roof to confirm that fact. Now he sat on the sofa, waiting.

  I was waiting with him, reading the paper. The mayor’s photo was on the front page, with BJ Baker and the sweatless visage of Detective Ronzoni. Credit where it wasn’t due.