Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  The staff did their best to stay focused, but one female working behind the counter said, “If you would just shut up for a minute, we could finish here.”

  Hawkins looked at his client to find his eyes still closed and a thin smile on his face. “Did you hear that, Mr. Logan? What arrogance!” He turned back to the woman and asked, “Can I borrow that typewriter? And what’s your name? I need to prepare a summons to bring suit against all your asses!”

  Nigel almost said something. He kept his eyes closed and his mouth shut. Instead, he kept saying to himself You’re not out yet. You’re not out yet. You’re not out yet. Still half expecting someone to come in and stop the proceedings, he jumped a bit when the door swung wide open and bounced off the wall. He cracked open an eye to see a guy carrying a clear plastic bag. Nigel recognized his wallet and a few other personal effects. He closed his eyes again. You’re not out yet. You’re not out yet.

  The things that happened next in the office were a blur. He was in a trance-like state and remembered nothing after seeing the bag with his stuff. Perhaps he willed it all away from his memory. Maybe he didn’t allow it to seep into his grey matter. In the end, it didn’t matter, because as soon as the outside gate slammed closed, he snapped out of it.

  He was looking out toward civilization. Then, he looked back toward institutionalization. He looked down at himself. He was in his own clothes. Out of instinct, he reached around and slapped his right pants pocket to feel for his wallet. It was there. Then he smiled and found his attorney. “I’m free, Hawk.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Let’s go get a whiskey.”

  “Where?”

  “My office. Keeping you out of the public eye for a while is probably a pretty good idea. I know the governor’s office is trying to keep this second round of pardons from gaining too much attention. I figure it best to extend him that one courtesy.”

  Nigel nodded his head in agreement.

  “Hey, I know,” said Hawkins as they were walking to his car. “Maybe you need to go ahead and register to vote. The deadline is only a few days away.”

  “Piss on his crooked ass, Hawk. Maybe I’ll send him a Christmas card.”

  The next morning delivered a hangover from hell. Nigel’s eyes felt swollen against his lids and sockets. A massive headache lurked with patience in the background. All it was waiting on was for Nigel to get up to go to the bathroom. As soon as he stands, it will hit him like a twelve-inch iron skillet.

  Nigel was on the couch. He remained still, afraid to move. He opened one eye. It took a few seconds to focus, but he found the bottle of Knob Creek on the cocktail table. It had maybe two fingers left in the bottom. It was new when they started. He groaned some pathetic noise, and closed his eyes to think about what they had done. That was a mistake. Stimulating his brain to think caused it to throb against his skull. He didn’t have to think. The fact he remembered so little made it all quite obvious.

  Nigel brought his head up to look around. He found Hawk passed out in his desk chair. His feet were up. He was crouched over; his head hung low and his hands dangled off to the side. It looked uncomfortable as hell, but Nigel figured Hawk was no stranger to waking up like this. He wanted to chuckle, but he knew it would be a mistake. Instead, he eased himself with subtle movements to an upright position. He looked around the office as he rubbed his head. It was filthy. The last time it was really clean was probably the day Hawk signed the lease.

  He was thirsty and his head was pounding. He made his way to the refrigerator. There was only beer. I’m quite sure there’s water in beer. It will have to do, he thought. He grabbed a PBR tallboy and popped the top. It went down easy. So did the next one. He walked over to the window that looked out over the street. Cars drove by. There was a guy on the corner with a newsstand selling papers. He watched people come and go on the sidewalk. Those were his favorites. He was one of them again. He wasn’t in prison. He smiled, and, all of a sudden, the hangover didn’t matter.

  The phone rang. Stone recognized the voice the second she heard the words I need a lift. She was wide-eyed as she listened in both amazement and disbelief. Nigel fed her bits and pieces of his release and all she could do was shake her head. She grabbed her keys before she even hung up the phone.

  A short toot of the horn got his attention. He looked up from the park bench as Stone reached across the FJ and pushed open the passenger-side door.

  After closing the door, she reached across for a hug, but backed off saying, “Whoa! You smell like...”

  Nigel said, “...prison, whiskey, cigarette smoke, and beer. Some of it may be the smell of my attorney’s office. Either way, I’d love to scrub this stench off me. Then maybe grab a bite to eat.”

  She sat outside the bathroom door and waited with his change of clothes. He was in the shower for what seemed like a month, but she didn’t care. She considered joining him, but decided to behave. Her eyes shifted to the door when she heard the water stop. He came out two minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist. She got up and handed him his clothes. “Feel better?”

  “I used all your hot water. Sorry.”

  She closed her eyes and almost said a cold shower might come in handy right now, but instead said, “That’s okay. Go get dressed.”

  As he walked through the house toward the kitchen, he was met with the smell of bacon on the stove and fresh coffee. When he came around the corner, she was cracking eggs in a bowl. She stopped when she saw him and asked, “Can I have my hug now?”

  They held each other tight. It was a hug they both benefitted from. In his ear, she said, “None of this makes any sense.”

  They released and looked at each other. He said, “I’m still wrapping my head around it, too.”

  She went back to tend to the late breakfast as he poured himself a big glass of ice water. She flipped the sizzling bacon and asked, “Does Candice know yet?”

  Nigel said nothing.

  Stone looked up to catch Nigel staring into his glass. She knew he heard the question. There was no way he couldn’t have. “Well? Does she?”

  Nigel looked up. The answer was on his face.

  “You haven’t told her, have you? She doesn’t know, does she?”

  He shook his head.

  Now she was actually getting a little mad. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why doesn’t she know?”

  “I don’t want anyone to know I’m out right now. Please don’t ask.”

  “You sound like an idiot, Nigel Logan.”

  He walked over and held her shoulders. He looked her in the eye and said, “I want to call her. I almost did last night, but I didn’t. I can’t. Not, yet anyway.” He paused a bit and continued, “I still have some things left to do.”

  “Nigel Logan! You are confusing and scaring me. What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Please, do me a favor?” asked Nigel. “As tempting as it might be, do not report that I have been released. Report all you want on the corruption of the governor’s actions to manipulate the election. Just leave me out of it.”

  “But, what about …”

  “No, buts. Please. For me. For me and Candice. Okay?”

  They sat next to each other and ate in silence until Nigel put his fork down and said, “Thank you. That was wonderful. I feel much better now.” He reached over, took her hands and brought them up for him to kiss. “I better get going.”

  She wanted to cry, but she didn’t.

  They walked in the garage and she said, “There she is. Your bag and stuff. Just like you left it.”

  His Bronco was parked on the far side, next to her FJ. She pushed the garage door opener and daylight started to flood in as they walked around to his vehicle. He got in and took a quick inventory. He put the key in the ignition and rolled down the window. “Thank you, again. Really. I will always be indebted to you.”

  “Will I see you again?” she asked.

  “If you do, you’ll know everything is alright.”

  “And
if I don’t?”

  Nigel said nothing.

  “Well ... I’m going to bet that I do.”

  Nigel smiled and said, “Betting on Nigel Logan usually carries pretty good odds.”

  She reached in and grabbed his face and kissed him. He held the back of her head and kissed her back. When they parted, she said, “Perhaps ... if we had met in another place and time, huh?”

  Nigel nodded with a smile and started the Bronco. It was loud in the garage and as he put it in gear, he raised his voice and said. “Take care of yourself.”

  She watched him roll out of the driveway. She walked and followed so she could see him go down the street. After he made a left turn and disappeared from sight, she yelled, “You better hurry back, asshole!”

  It was three days before Christmas. Nigel was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran his fingers through his beard, now full after two months of growth. He hated it. It drove him crazy, and he was ready for it to be gone.

  He was done with the shitty motel where he had been staying. He had registered under the name Jim Horton and told the owner he was in town for business from Sanibel Island, Florida. Nigel paid for the first four weeks, up front and with cash. He could tell the owner could care less about who he was, or where he was from. As long as he kept paying in cash, he could stay as long as he liked. That was a perfect arrangement, but it wouldn’t last. After today he wouldn’t be back, even though he still had two more weeks on the books. The cash cow would disappear.

  He had done all his planning over the past several weeks. He knew where to go and what to expect. He had thought it through a hundred times.

  He went around the room and collected everything and anything that could connect him with staying there and put it in a garbage bag. He even piled all the sheets in the floor so the owner’s wife, Carla, would change the sheets when she came in to clean next. Carla liked cleaning Mr. Horton’s room. Once a week, he left her a twenty-dollar bill on the dresser. On this day he left a Ben Franklin, a little note scribbled on the bill: Merry Christmas, Carla.

  He counted what cash he had left. Out of the twenty grand he started with, he had just over eleven hundred dollars left. He was getting low, but figured it would be enough. He put a rubber band around the money and put it in his bag. He picked up the Ruger Mark IV. He had bought it from a guy way out Highway 58, around Adam’s Grove. He checked the magazine. It was full. In the bag it went.

  On the dresser, a cell phone was charging. It was full, so he put it in his pocket. He collected everything else and packed it away. With his personal bag slung over his shoulder and the garbage bag in his hand, it was time to leave. He stood at the door and looked back around the room one last time. He liked what he saw. On his way to the Bronco, he ditched the trash bag and room key in the dumpster.

  As he was getting close to his vehicle, he could hear his cell phone ringing. He crawled up in the Bronco and picked his phone up off the console. It was Sherry Stone. She tries to call him every few days. He always let it go to voicemail. He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and said, “Keep the light on for me.”

  He wore a full-length topcoat with a broad, faux-fur collar. The same fur brim on his hat matched his coat. He walked through the door right on time. He took a seat at his favorite table, so he could see the whole room. It was almost empty. At the bar, drinking alone, was a big guy in a dark blue hoodie. Across the room and by a window, a couple sat in a booth chatting.

  As he was taking off his hat, the bartender showed up at the table with a snifter, a long pour of Cognac sloshed around in the bowl. He set it down and said, “Evening, Big Man.”

  “How’s it been, tonight?”

  “Slow, boss. Real slow.”

  The bartender kept talking as his boss surveyed the room. “I was think’n, boss. Since it’s so slow, that maybe we could shut down early. It being Christmas Eve and all.”

  “That’s what you get for thinking.” Then he pointed at the couple and asked, “How long they been in here?”

  “About an hour, I guess,” replied the bartender. “They should be leaving soon. They settled their tab about five minutes before you came in.”

  “And what’s his story?” he asked pointing toward the bar.

  “I don’t know. White boy. Comes in here from time to time. Doesn’t say much. Drinks Jim Beam.” He leaned in and lowered his tone. “I think he knows it isn’t the real stuff. He never says anything though, and he always pays in cash.”

  They heard the shuffling of the couple scooting out of their booth. The bartender called after them, “Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming in.”

  The coupled waved as they headed to the door.

  “So ... what do you say, boss? Close early?”

  His boss tilted his head toward the bar and said, “As long as he’s pay’n, you’re stay’n.” And that was the end of that conversation. The bartender returned to his duties.

  He took a sip of his cognac and relaxed. He was decompressing after a long week and was ready for the holidays to be over. There was a library quality to the quiet that filled the bar, until his cell phone rang. He put his drink down and thought Leave me alone, but dug into the breast pocket of his topcoat. The phone continued to ring as he looked at the name on the phone with both shock and a haunting amazement. The screen lit up his face and revealed his unexpected nervousness. It was Jimbo Waters.

  He took the call and lowered his voice. “Jimbo? It’s Big Man. Is that you?”

  There was quiet on the other end of the line. Then the call ended.

  He tried to call him back, but it rang and rang without ever being answered. He knocked his cognac back and yelled to the bartender to bring him another. What did all this mean? Jimbo was dead, or so he thought. And that Logan guy was in prison. A million ridiculous possibilities rushed through his head. Then, as his fresh drink was placed in front of him, the phone rang again.

  The bartender saw the uneasiness of his boss and left in a hurry to finish cleaning behind the bar. Big Man answered again. “Jimbo? Where are you?”

  This time he could hear breathing. Somebody was playing games with his head. “Dammit! Who is this?”

  Whoever was on the other end began to chuckle with amusement as Manchester Lundsford began to lose it. “Who is this, goddammit? What do you want?”

  The chuckling turned to full laughter. Manchester ended the call and slammed his fist onto the table. He yelled, “Son! Of! A! Bitch!”

  Big Man looked up and around the room. He found his bartender straightening the bar stools. They were alone. The barkeep asked, “Is everything alright, boss?”

  Big Man said nothing. He sat back in his chair and stared at his phone that lay on the table. He waited, half expecting at any second that it would ring again, but it didn’t. He didn’t know what was worse. The ringing or the waiting.

  After about an hour and two more cognacs, he gathered his things and left. The bartender said, “Good night, Big Man.” He was hoping his boss would say to close it all down and go home. But he said nothing before heading to the back door.

  He stepped out into the dark, cold alley. A stiff north wind funneled its way between the buildings and made it feel much worse. He clinched the collar of his coat as he scurried to his car. He was fumbling for his keys when the phone rang again. He clutched at his breast pocket, but quickly realized it wasn’t his phone ringing. He looked around and followed the sound of the ringer. It was close. It was real close. As it rang, it also vibrated, and he found it ringing and buzzing on the hood of his car. He picked it up.

  From behind him he heard someone say, “Go ahead, Manchester. Answer it.”

  Big Man turned around. At first, he saw nothing. Then he saw the large hooded person move toward him from out of the shadows. He went for his gun, but it was too late. The dark figure was swift and moved with accuracy. The first blow to the head was a huge hook to the jaw. Bones cracked. It sent Big Man down to one knee. He tried to get up. He clawed
at his car, looking for anything to grab to help pull himself up. Then he was hit again. Another very hard hook. Big Man collapsed face down. He was down for the count, but he wasn’t out. Big Man’s arms and legs had some movement left in them. He felt his collar get grabbed and his head raised about a foot off the ground. Then, one last blow was delivered. This time to the back of the head, just above the base of the neck. The force drove Big Man’s face into the pavement. He went still.

  Logan pulled back his hoodie. He placed the roll of quarters he had clenched in his fist back in his pocket. He looked at his target and said, “I told you. You were next.”

  Logan rolled down the highway; his package tied up and contorted in the back. He was headed south again, to North Carolina and the Outer Banks. This time, after crossing the bridge on Highway 158, he took the easy bend at the intersection and headed south. There was no traffic to speak of. He owned the streets. He also knew he would own the attention of every squad car on the road. It was late. It was Christmas Eve. And every patrolman would be thinking Why isn’t this guy at home?

  The series of stoplights going through Nags Head were the worst. It seemed like he caught every one of them, but that was an exaggeration. What wasn’t an exaggeration were the nerves he felt as a squad car pulled in close while he was stopped at a light.

  The light turned green and Logan decided that acting too careful would probably draw more attention than anything else, so he got a little aggressive with the gas pedal. It wasn’t a drag race, but he didn’t ease his way to the speed limit. As a matter of fact, he pushed it to five miles an hour over. That was everyday normal driving. The squad car stayed close behind.

  They were approaching an intersection. A choice had to be made, to continue down the coast on Highway 12, or to continue on 158, cross the sound and head toward Roanoke Island. Logan eased over in the lane for Highway 12 and began to slow for the red light. The squad car seemed to accelerate and continued on. Logan threw up a hand to offer a Christmas wave. There was no reaction from the officer, his mind clearly on something else. Nigel smiled.