Charles Willeford - Sideswipe

by Unknown

  "Go ahead. It's right in front of you."

  "I can't go with you looking at me."

  Troy closed his eyes; then he put his fingers into his ears. "Okay. I won't look and I won't listen."

  Stanley urinated, and then washed his hands and face at the sink. There was a deep cut on his upper lip, and he wished that there were a mirror so he could see how badly it was split. There was a lot of blood on the front of his shirt, but his lip had stopped bleeding.

  "Let me take a look at that lip." Troy didn't sit up, so Stanley had to bend over the bunk for Troy to examine it.

  "If it was me," Troy said, "I'd have a couple of stitches put in. Otherwise, you're gonna have a nice little scar. Seems to me you're too old to be brawling anyway. A man your age'll lose more fights than he'll win, Pop."

  "I wasn't fighting. My neighbor hit me, and he didn't have no call to do it. I was going to explain, but he hit me and then twisted my arm up behind my back while my wife called the police."

  "Did you hit your wife?"

  Stanley shook his head. "I been married forty-one years, and I never hit her a single time. Not once." He said it as though he'd had ample reason to.

  "Then why'd your neighbor bust you in the mouth?"

  "My wife told him I molested his little girl, and I didn't do a darned thing to her, nothing at all, but he wouldn't listen to me."

  "How old was the girl you showed your weenie?"

  "I didn't show her nothing. She showed me, and she's nine, going on ten."

  "You're lucky there, old man. If she was eight or under you'd be looking at twenty-five years. But once they hit nine they're old enough to take instructions in the Catholic church. So eight's the magic number in most states. But when they hit nine or ten, sometimes you can make a deal with the state attorney. Unless you hurt her. Did you hurt her?"

  "I didn't touch the girl. I was taking a nap out on my back porch, and she came in the screen door and woke me up by putting her tongue in my mouth."

  Troy nodded and made the lightning grimace. "You must've seemed irresistible to her, laying there with your mouth open. I had a girl friend once in San Berdoo who used to wake me up by sticking her tongue up my asshole. But she was thirty-five and didn't have very much else going for her. What did she do then, Pop, pull your pants down?"

  "No, she took off -her- pants, her shorts, red shorts. I was still half asleep, or half awake, and didn't quite catch on to what she was doing at first. She had a bag of pennies, you see, and she wanted one penny for the soul kiss, and then asked for another five pennies after she took off her shorts."

  "That's cheap enough, God knows."

  "She said some old man in the park--Julia Tuttle Park--was giving her pennies for doing this, and I guess she thought that because I was old I'd do the same thing."

  "But you didn't start anything?"

  "No, I was asleep, I told you. Then Maya, that's my wife, came into the house while I was trying to catch Pammi and put her shorts back on. She ran down the block and told Mrs. Sneider. She called her husband at the gas station, and he came over and hit me in the mouth. Nobody would listen to me. I don't know what Pammi told her mother."

  "Pammi? Short for Pamela?"

  "No, just Pammi, with an i at the end and no e."

  "Did you make your phone call? You're entitled to a phone call, you know."

  "The deputy said I could make a call, but the only one I could think of to call was Maya, and my wife knows I'm in here already." Stanley began to cry.

  Troy got to his feet and told Stanley to sit down on the bunk. He pulled Stanley's shirttail out of his pants and wiped the old man's face. "Crying ain't gonna help you none, old-timer. What you need's a good jailhouse lawyer. You listen to me, and I'll help you. Then you can do something for me. Okay?"

  "It's all a big mistake," Stanley said. "I'd never do nothing to that little girl in a million years. I ain't even had a hard-on for more'n three years now. I'm seventy-one years old and retired."

  "I believe you, Pop. Just listen a minute. Here's what'll happen to you. This father, Mr. Sneider--"

  "He's a retired Army master sergeant, but he leases a Union station now."

  "Okay, Sergeant Sneider. What he'll do is file a complaint, and then they'll send you out of here for a psychiatric evaluation. That'll mean three or four days in a locked ward at the hospital. The doctor'll listen to your story, just like I did. Psychiatrists don't say much, they mostly listen, and I have a hunch he'll tell the state attorney to let you go. Meanwhile, this sergeant'll be thinking things over, and he'll realize if this case goes to trial his little girl will have to take the stand. After he and his wife talk about it, they'll decide they don't want to put the kid through the trauma of a courtroom appearance. So whether you're guilty or not, this case won't go to trial. But how you handle yourself when you talk to the psychiatrist is very important. He'll ask some very personal questions. How often do you masturbate?"

  Stanley shook his head. "I don't do nothing like that."

  "That's the wrong answer, Pop. Tell him once or twice a week. If you tell him you don't do it at all, he'll put it down on his report that you're evasive. And in shrink jargon, 'evasive' means lying. How often do you have relations with your wife?"

  "None at all. Not since we came down to Florida, and that's been six years now. I still wanted to at first, but Maya said she wanted to retire, too, just like me, so we just quit doing it. I wasn't all that keen myself, to tell you the truth."

  "For Christ's sake, Pop, don't tell the analyst that. Tell him once a week, at least. Otherwise, he'll think you're abnormal and you need little girls for an outlet."

  "I don't need any little girls! I never touched Pammi. I told you that already."

  "I -know- that, but you've got to tell a shrink what they want to hear. You'll have to persuade him that you have a normal, regular sex life."

  "Maya'll tell him different."

  "He won't talk to her. She's not accused of anything; you are. Apparently she believes what she thought she saw, so she'll be on Sneider's side. You understand what I'm talking about?"

  "I think so. But it seems to me that Pammi, if she tells the truth, could clear all this up in a minute."

  "Of course she could. But she'll want to cover her own little ass. Little girls lie, big girls lie, and old women like your wife lie, too. Come to think of it, all women lie, even when the truth would do 'em more good. But you've got an honest face, old man, and the psychiatrist'll believe you when you lie."

  "My name is Stanley. Stanley Sinkiewicz. I don't mind being called Pop, because that's what they used to call me on the line at Ford, but I don't much like 'old man.'"

  "Okay, Pop, fair enough. My real name's Troy Louden, but I'm signed up in here as Robert Smith. Let me finish telling you what to do, and you'll be out of here in no time. Stick to the same story you told me, but keep it simple. Maybe, when one of the detectives questions Pammi, she'll break down and tell the truth. But whether she does or not, it's still your word against hers. I realize your wife says she saw something, but all she saw was you trying to put the girl's shorts back on. Right? Admit this much, and that'll probably be the end of it. But I can guarantee you that you won't do any time if this is your first offense. This is your first offense, isn't it? You didn't get caught with any little girls before?"

  "I never did nothing with a little girl, except when I was a little boy, and I never got caught then. I worked on the line at Ford all my life, and most of the time I was sick at night from smelling paint and turpentine all day."

  "You haven't got a record, then?"

  "None. I never been in jail before."

  "Then you're in the clear, Pop. Feel better?"

  "I think so." Stanley nodded. "My lip still hurts though."

  "I can't do anything about that. But when you get out, you should get a doctor to take a couple of stitches in it. Or, if they send you to the psychiatric ward in the morning, ask the nurse to get it sewed up for you
. If I had a needle and thread I'd do it for you myself."

  "You know how to do things like that?"

  "Sure. I'm used to taking care of myself when I get hurt. I'm a professional criminal, a career criminal, and when I get hurt on the job, or someone with me does, we can't go to a doctor--not a regular one, anyway. I've set bones, and I even took a bullet out of a man's back once. If I hadn't, he'd of been paralyzed."

  "How come you're in jail, Troy?"

  "Call me Robert, Pop, while we're in here. Robert. After we get out, then you can call me Troy. Remember I told you I'm signed in here as Robert Smith."

  "Sure, Robert. I'm sorry. I'm still upset, I guess."

  "No need to be. You'll get out of this okay, Pop. But to answer your question, I'm a professional criminal, what the shrinks call a criminal psychopath. What it means is, I know the difference between right and wrong and all that, but I don't give a shit. That's the official version. Most men in prison are psychopaths, like me, and there are times-- when we don't give a shit--when we act impulsively. Ordinarily though, I'm not impulsive, because I always think a job out very carefully before I get around to doing it. But I misjudged this truck driver this morning. I thought he was a little simple-minded, in fact, just because of the way he talked. But he turned out to be devious. He didn't have much education, but apparently he had more native American intelligence than I gave him credit for-- Somebody's coming."

  Troy crossed to the bars and watched the black trusty coming down the corridor with an enameled metal plate and a cup of coffee.

  "Who was it missed supper?" the trusty asked as he reached the cell.

  "Just pass it through. I'll give it to the old man."

  "I'm not hungry," Stanley said.

  "Never mind," Troy said. "Somebody'll eat it."

  The trusty passed the plate and the cup through the slot in the cell door, and Troy sat beside Stanley on the bottom bunk. The plate contained beef stew, mustard greens, lime Jell-O, and a square of corn bread. There was a tablespoon in the cup of black coffee, which had been heavily sugared.

  "Sure you don't want some of this, Pop? It'll be a long time till breakfast. Here, eat the corn bread, anyway."

  Stanley ate the corn bread, and Troy ate the stew and the lime Jell-O, but not the mustard greens. He sipped the coffee and grimaced. "I don't mind food mixed up on the plate, because it all goes to one place anyway, but I can't eat greens without vinegar. Can you?"

  "I'm not hungry. But this is good corn bread."

  "I'm not hungry either, but I never pass up a chance to eat when I'm in jail. Ever been in jail in Mexico, Pop?"

  "I never been in jail before. I already told you that. I never been in Mexico, either."

  "I was in jail in Juarez once, right across the border from El Paso. They only feed twice a day there, at ten and four, and the guys who're doing the most time take half your beans. All you get is tortillas and beans twice a day, and the guys who've been there longest need the extra calories. They presume that a man who just got in's been eating good already, and they need to keep up their strength. There's more of them than there are of you, so you have to give up half your beans."

  "What did you do to get thrown in a Mexican jail?"

  "That's another story, Pop. Let me finish telling you what went down this morning, 'cause you're gonna help me with my situation. I'm on my way to Miami, and I got stuck just outside of Daytona, hitchhiking. Hitchhiking ain't what it used to be, unless you're a soldier or a sailor in uniform, because there are a lot of criminals on the roads these days, and people aren't picking up strangers the way they used to. I waited on U.S. One for almost three hours before I got a ride. Finally, a guy named Henry Collins gave me a lift. D'you know him, by any chance?"

  "No, I don't. But I don't know many people."

  "He lives right here in West Palm Beach."

  "I don't live in West Palm. I live in Ocean Pines Terraces, over in Riviera Beach, the retirement settlement the other side of the canal."

  "Well, Collins lives here, and he told me West Palm was as far as he was going when I first got into his car. He drives a 1984 Prelude."

  "That's a Japanese car. You know, it's un-American to drive one of them. The foot pedals in a Honda are too small, and there's more leg room in a Ford. A Ford'll do anything a Honda'll do, too."

  "I'm not complaining about the car, Pop. After three hours standing in the sun, I was willing to ride in the back of a pickup with a load of sheep. Anyway, Collins is a truck driver, and works out of Jacksonville. But he had two full days off, and he was coming home to spend it with his wife. I got to thinking about standing on the highway for another three hours or so, and the more I thought about it, the more I hated the idea. So I decided to take Collins's car and drive to Miami myself."

  Stanley widened his eyes. "You mean you stole the man's car, after he was good enough to give you a free ride?"

  "No, it didn't work out that way. I took my pistol out from under my belt and shoved it into his side, but before I could explain that I was only going to borrow his car, and that I wasn't going to hurt him, Collins jerks the wheel and we pile into a concrete bridge rail. About a mile north of downtown Riviera Beach. I'd already seen the sign marking the city limits. The damned fool could've killed us both."

  "That's right. 'Specially in a tinny Japanese car."

  Troy laughed. "He was frightened, I suppose. He banged his head against the windshield, and he was stunned for a minute, but I was braced and wearing my seatbelt. I always wear a seatbelt. Seatbelts save lives."

  "I don't wear mine. I figure if I'm hanging on to the wheel I'm braced enough."

  "It didn't work out that way for Henry Collins, Pop. The swamp was right there, with water going under the bridge, and it looked pretty deep there, so I tossed my gun as far as I could into the water. Collins was only out cold for a few seconds, but then he came to and glared at me."

  "You should've run," Stanley said. "If I'd a been you I'd've started running."

  "I never run, Pop. What could Collins prove? It was only his word against mine. We didn't wait long anyway, because people stopped right away to see if we were hurt. Within three minutes there was a state trooper there to investigate the accident. It was just inside the city limits, so he called for a Riviera cop. Meanwhile, Collins was filling the trooper in about me pulling a pistol on him."

  "What did you say?"

  "I told the trooper and the cop both that Collins was either drunk or crazy. They made him walk a straight line and then take a breath test. And he wasn't drunk. They didn't think he was crazy either, so after he said he'd prefer charges, they locked me up. Hell, he's a homeowner here, and I don't have any fixed address. Not at the moment anyway, except for this cell."

  "Did they ever find your gun?"

  "Not yet, and they won't try very hard, not in all that stinking muck out there. But even if they find a gun they can't prove it's mine. There must be hundreds of guns thrown off bridges here in Florida."

  Frowning, Stanley took the plate and cup from Troy and put them down by the door. "You're in a lot of trouble, son. That's an awful thing to do, pulling a gun on a man that way. What ever made you do it?"

  "I explained that to you. I'm a criminal psychopath, so I'm not responsible for the things I do."

  "Does that mean you're crazy? You don't look crazy, Troy--I mean John."

  "Robert."

  "Robert. Of course, pulling that pistol on that man--"

  "Let me finish, Pop. I don't have time to go into all of the ramifications of my personality, it's too complex. I've been tested again and again, and it always comes out the same. Psychopath. And because I'm a criminal, I'm also a criminal psychopath. You follow me?"

  "Yeah, I think so. But if you aren't crazy, what are you?"

  "It's what I told you already. I know the difference between good and bad, but it makes no difference to me. If I see the right thing to do and want to do it, I do it, and if I see the wrong thing and want to do
it, I do that, too."

  "You mean you can't help yourself then?"

  "Certainly I can. I'll put it another way. I can help myself, but I don't give a damn."

  "And because you don't give a damn, you're a criminal psychopath, is that it?"

  "You've got it."

  "But why"--Stanley made a sweeping movement with his arm--"don't you give a damn?"

  "Because I'm a criminal psychopath. Maybe, when they give you some tests, you might could be one, too."

  "No, I'm a responsible person, Robert. I worked hard all my life, took good care of my wife and son, and even put my boy through junior college. I own a home up in Detroit, and I own my own home here in Florida. I never done nothing wrong in my life, except for--well, I won't go into some little things, maybe."

  "Even after they test you, Pop, you still won't know how they came out. They never tell you. I had to give a man at Folsom two cartons of Chesterfields to get a Xerox of my medical records. That's how I know. Otherwise I wouldn't know that I was a criminal psychopath, and I would think I was doing strange things instead of acting naturally. I read a lot, you see, even when I'm not in jail."

  Stanley pointed to the dish and cup on the floor. "Do I have to wash this plate and cup?"

  "Hell, no, just leave it for the trusty. Until a man's been adjudicated and found guilty, he don't have to do anything in jail. They'll try to get you to do things, but you can tell them to go fuck themselves because you're innocent until you're proven guilty. You and me are both innocent, so we don't have to do a damned thing. Sit down over there, Pop, I want to talk to you."

  "I don't want to hear no more about those tests."

  Stanley sat beside Troy, and Troy put an arm around the old man's shoulders. "Never mind the tests. I want you to do me a little favor, Pop. If you don't want to help me, say so, and I won't ask."

  "Sure, I don't mind helping you, Robert, I guess. But in here, I don't know--"

  "You won't be in here much longer. If you call a lawyer he can get you out right away on your own recognizance."

  "My what?"

  "Rec-- The fact that you know who you are and that you're a property owner. Just listen to me a minute. I'm not wanted anywhere at present, but the first thing the sheriff'll do is send my fingerprints up to Charleston, South Carolina, to see if there's any criminal record on me, or if I'm wanted by some southern state. Florida's still the South, you know, despite all the snowbirds who moved down here from the North. And in the South, they always send the prints to Charleston first, because it's the southern version of the FBI records center. They won't get a make on my prints in Charleston, because I did all my time in California."