Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

"You worked for the government so long you don't know what real work is."

  "And I don't intend finding out."

  "Go into Harrisburg and poke around."

  Logan looked thoughtful. "No, I'll stick close for a while."

  "Well, you could at least take that dumb pistol off your ankle. You aren't likely to find bandits on the Bloomfield square."

  Logan hesitated, then unbuckled the holster. He scratched his leg appreciatively. "I suppose you're right, Mick. Might feel unnatural for a year or two, but I'll try it."

  "You even have a permit to carry concealed, Logan?"

  "Yup, a federal permit."

  "Never heard of one."

  "FBI has them."

  "Well, you won't need it here."

  "All right. I'll hang it on the bedpost."

  "And leave it there. It'll show you're settling in."

  +++

  Once football started, Logan got better. They followed Perry Joint and made most games. Logan bought a giant of a TV set and put an antenna on top of the ridge.

  On Sunday they settled in with the pros.

  Logan got a monthly government check and seemed to have money enough. That eased Mickey's mind. His friend had quit awfully young. A man could guess wrong and end up short in his old age. It was beginning to happen to retired farmers. Mickey was socking his away. The Westons would have enough.

  When Logan began writing a book, the last of his impatience drained away.

  Logan was trying fiction. Mickey read his drafts.

  "Logan, you're a friend, so I can tell you straight out. Don't get high hopes."

  "Well, it isn't done yet."

  "Did you go to the same high school I did, Dell? You can't hardly call this English."

  "That's army slang there, you fool. Everybody doesn't speak pure Perry Countian."

  "Every third word is a cuss word."

  "That's the way soldiers talk."

  Mickey dropped the pages. "Nobody will publish such stuff."

  "Yes, they will."

  "No, they won't!"

  Logan was undisturbed. "They will someday, I’m probably ahead of my time."

  +++

  1961

  Mickey wasn't sure which he despised most, Logan's beard or his cane. Probably the beard. It hid too much of Logan's face and disguised his emotions.

  Logan carried the cane just to have something in his hand. He waved it around and poked at things. He enjoyed showing the sword sheathed within the wood and repeatedly told the story of the Georgia cane-makers who had created it. As with most of Logan's stories, each telling got better. He adjusted his tales to fit his listeners and rarely let truth interfere.

  What a liar! Logan claimed recovering the cane from an abandoned shack where mysterious voodoo rites were conducted. Another occasional explanation was that the sword cane was a gift from the maker, who Logan had saved by driving off a pack of wild Georgia boars.

  When Mickey pulled up in front of the hardware store, Logan was waving his cane and arguing about John F. Kennedy's election. To hear Logan tell it, the country was doomed. Kennedy, Dell observed, was a weak fish, and his eyes were too close together, indicating immoral cunning.

  According to Logan, the new president would bankrupt the country, demolish the armed forces, and be walked on by the Russians. Logan's politics were so far right he made the John Birch Society appear pink.

  Logan's views did not go unshared. Republican Perry County had no expectations of good times during the Kennedy years.

  The few county Democrats—chronic losers and do-gooders, Logan called them—didn't matter. There weren't enough to carry any election. If one got voted in, it was in spite of being a Democrat.

  Logan called over, "Morning, Mick. You bring our outfit?"

  "It's in the car."

  A man laughed, "You'll never make it. Logan'll collapse or Mickey will come down like a toppled tree."

  Mickey said, "We'll make it. Max."

  Logan added, "We're a tradition. A Memorial Day parade couldn't go on without us."

  Men disagreed. "Dumbest act in the show."

  "I'd rather watch fire engines."

  "You fools started this when we were all in high school. I'd think you'd be tired of it. Everybody else is."

  Mickey shot back, "Better than just watching. You've gotten so old it's an effort to applaud when we come by."

  "I'm throwing eggs."

  Mickey got into the dress and hiked it into a roll around his waist. He planted his wig with the pointy crown firmly and got set for Logan to lift him. He put a foot on Logan's bent thigh and they gripped hands. On three, Mickey pushed upward and Logan hauled with his arms. As easy as pie, Mickey ended standing on Logan's shoulders.

  Mickey let the rolled dress fall and it reached the ground. A friend handed up the torch and cardboard books of law. Mickey grumbled, "Let's go," and Logan leaned into his walk.

  The Statue of Liberty fell into place behind the Perry Joint marching band (who had no uniforms this time of year). Mickey held the torch high and the books at breast level. Logan groaned occasionally and requested foot shifts on his shoulders.

  His expression fixed in Miss Liberty-like stillness, Mickey snarled down to Logan to quit lurching and stop crowding the band so close.

  Logan swore feelingly, "This is the slowest parade yet. My shoulders are breaking."

  "Shut up, we're making the turn in a few steps. We'll be at the cemetery before you know it."

  "This is the last year, Mick."

  "Don't blame me. I've wanted to quit since we did it the first time. Damn it, walk steady or I'll fall off."

  "My collarbones are down to my waist. I can't last much longer."

  "We're coming to the entrance. We'll peel off and I'll get down. Look good now, there are people watching." Mickey could feel Logan steady.

  A Brownie troop, already fallen out, cheered enthusiastically as the Statue of Liberty passed and inspired Logan to keep going until the band drew to a halt. Then he made off among the graves to a tall stone marked, "Rambo," where they always got down.

  Logan was sweating like a distance runner and Mickey's sneakers had impressed their tread into Logan's shirt.

  "How'd we do, Mick? Anybody salute us this year? I heard handclapping, but I couldn't see much."

  Mickey looked his disdain. "You ham! All you care about is people thinking how wonderful you are."

  "So? How'd we do?"

  "Like always. Same guy thumbed his nose. Our families cheered and maybe a few others noticed us."

  "Darn it, Mickey, you get to see it all. At least you could remember a few details for the one that's doing the work."

  "Logan, you're a war veteran. You should be in your old uniform and wearing your medals, not hiding under a dress we made in Bloomfield High."

  "I've told you, I like marching this way. We've done it every year I was home. Doesn't tradition mean anything to you?"

  "Logan, we're forty-three years old. That means we're almost grown up."

  Mickey sniggered, "I could hear you tapping along with your cane. Now that must have looked real stupid."

  "Well, it helped me balance. Next year I might use both canes. You're not getting lighter you know."

  "We aren't doing it next year. I'm sick of people claiming I look good in a dress."

  "I thought it was the wig they liked you in."

  "Shut up, Dell."

  +++

  After the ceremonies they wandered back to the cars left in the square. Mickey said, "Let's sit over by the hotel for a bit. Sort of watch the action."

  "Watch what action? Mable Jones walking her poodle? People watching is enjoyable, but there have to be lots of walkers. Now Rangoon was the place: pirates, beggers, diamond traders, rickshaws whispering past, all sorts of uniforms and drifters from all over the world."

  "What were you doing in Rangoon?"

  Logan sat on a step and leaned his elbows back on a higher one. "Hmm, seems to me I was col
lecting data about sheet gold being smuggled by wrapping it around waists so clothing hid it."

  "Now who would care about that? I don't believe you've ever been to Rangoon."

  Logan was not offended. "You've become a doubter, Mick. You ought to go to church with Sis more often. It'd build up trust in your fellow man."

  "Anybody would be a doubter if they heard as many lies as you tell."

  Logan said, "Look, Mick, when you've lived in Perry County longer you'll discover that...."

  "Don't start that, Logan."

  But Logan wasn't listening. His body had gone tight, and Mickey heard his teeth click. Logan was looking across Mickey's shoulder, so he turned to look as well.

  A stranger was standing on the corner of Carlisle and Main. He was staring straight back at Logan. The man was older, burly, and dark. More than heavily tanned, Mickey believed. Logan radiated tension as the stranger walked to them. Logan said, "Get up and walk away, Mick. Do it now!"

  Confused by Logan's intensity, Mickey asked, "What is it, Logan, you know this guy?"

  Then the stranger was there and it was too late. He stood a yard away, rocking on his heels and smiling coldly, as though hugely satisfied with himself.

  Logan said nothing, but he gave Mickey a nudge, which brought a chuckle from the stranger.

  "So, Sabot, it has been a long trail." The stranger's English was good.

  Grim as death, Logan said, "Vasco."

  The Geraldo raised eyebrows. "You do not seem surprised, Sabot. Were you so sure we would come?"

  "I am out of the game, Geraldo. I had hoped you would be."

  Geraldo bristled, "You believed we would forget our brothers, Sabot? Never!"

  The bridled rage touched Mickey and he asked, "Who is this, Logan?"

  Instantly the Geraldo became urbane. "Ah, Mister Weston—you see, we know you as well.

  "Who am I? I use many names, as does my brother in the car across the street. Our words are for your friend, Logan Dell, whom we once met as L. Sabot, we hope that you will not become involved as there would be no profit for you."

  "Leave him out of it, Vasco."

  "Leave your friend out, Sabot?" Vasco Geraldo laughed openly. "Perhaps, Logan Dell. You know how these things are played." He shrugged, "Often the innocent become players. Sometimes they provide satisfactions otherwise unobtainable."

  'Your interests lie in me, Geraldo."

  Vasco nodded, as though remembering. "Yes, Sabot. Should I signal Jorge to end our discussion? It could be over in an instant that way."

  To Mickey's astonishment, Logan relaxed and laughed. He again leaned on his elbows, smiling coldly at Geraldo's suddenly flushed features.

  "You know that's not the way it works, Vasco. That would be too soon. No, you'll wish to drag it out, to make me squirm." Logan waved and called across to a parked sedan. "Jorge. Bien a dia." No answer came from the car's interior.

  The Geraldo turned his bitter eyes to Mickey, and Logan's friend felt his scalp tighten and sweat break. He wasn't certain of all that was meant but he could taste the hatred and the violence enveloping them.

  He was again astounded by Logan's chuckle. "You Geraldos are magnificent glarers, Vasco. You look daggers, but you'll do nothing to my friend. You believe I will not run because I would expect you to harm my friend. You are right. Yet, if you harm him, then I would be free to bolt, and you might never find me again. Save your hard looks for me, although I have seen worse. Come when you are ready, but I would not wait too long. I have friends still in the game."

  Vasco Geraldo sneered. "How brave you speak, but sweat stains your clothing. Jorge would act now, but I prefer to see more sweat from the killer of our brothers."

  "Oh, we will come, Sabot. We have you now. Tomorrow, next week, a year? Will we first take a knee? Perhaps both hands? It will not be quick, Sabot. We have waited too long."

  Logan spoke as if they discussed the weather. "I heard you've spent a lot of money, Vasco. Wasted time and wasted money to avenge easy marks like your brothers. I remember five of you, stumbling among tables, shooting wildly, losing three to take one shuffler of paper. The great Geraldos? Hah! Children in a man's profession."

  Vasco Geraldo swelled with suppressed rage. Mickey felt his fingers ache with tension, but Logan appeared unimpressed. With visible effort, Geraldo regained composure, and Logan spoke calmly to a passing acquaintance. "Howdy, Sam. Good parade, wasn't it?"

  Almost insolently Logan returned his attention to Vasco Geraldo, waiting patiently for the man to speak.

  "All right, Sabot. We have come. Enjoy your short time—and it will be short. Try to sleep and eat. Enjoy a woman, if one will have you. Speak many prayers while you have a tongue."

  Logan's voice was a sneer. "Will you come in the night, Vasco? Or will you stay at great distance? The Geraldo have never shown courage, so I will have no fear of seeing you."

  "And you, Sabot—we know of the sword in your cane. Do you still carry a small gun at your ankle, as you once did? We know you do not, at least today. Surprise will be ours. The pain and death, Sabot, will be yours."

  Vasco Geraldo dipped a short bow, much like his brother's when Andre went down. He smiled crookedly. "We found Thomas E. Glynn an amusement. I wonder which of your many names will be chosen for your gravestone."

  Logan held Mickey's urgent questioning at bay until they were safely ensconced in the privacy of their old camping ground. Even then, Logan was reluctant to begin talking about it.

  "Boy, we've had a lot of campfires at this place, Mick. I'm glad we haven't cleaned it out."

  Mickey wasn't having it. "Quit beating around, Logan. This is serious and I'm involved. That man was talking about killing you and maybe me as well. Talk, damn it! What is going on?"

  Logan blew air through his lips, as though relieving inner pressures. Then he explained the best he could.

  "The two men are Vasco and Jorge Geraldo. They are killers with reputations running back decades. They have been looking for me for years. Seems as though they have finally caught up."

  "Well, hell, Logan, let's get the law onto them. Call the state police. How about the outfit you worked for, isn't this their kind of thing? Maybe the FBI? My God, you ought to know who to turn to."

  Logan waved him quiet. "It's not that simple, Mick. If someone comes, they'll find the Geraldos have diplomatic immunity through some Third World country. The most that could happen is their deportation. Our country does not have a team that could simply execute the Geraldos. In another country, perhaps; in our own, our laws prevent it."

  "Then get them deported, Logan. Why wait around?"

  Again Logan sighed, "I'm explaining as fast as I can. Look, deportation takes time. If we got them out, they would just come again. Oh, I follow your thinking, Mick. I could just disappear." Logan chuckled mirthlessly. "The Geraldos would welcome that. It would give them opportunity to hurt me through you and others I care about."

  Mickey appeared shocked.

  "That's right, Mickey. They might shoot your knee, or worse; they could do things to Sis. The Geraldos are inside my guard now. I can't run, and they will pick the time to fight."

  Mickey was horrified. His mind swirled between anger and confusion. "Well, we've got to do something. We can't just sit around until they decide it's a good day to shoot you dead."

  Logan was thoughtful, then questioning. "But what, Mick? You've got to believe me, there isn't any high-powered help out there. Oh, I've got a number to call, and they would be capable of spiriting me away, but what about you? That is why the Geraldos made themselves known today. They've got me anchored. Forget the agencies. They cannot help right now.

  "Putting it off won't help, either. The Geraldos will come when they can, even if we are all so old we've forgotten our ages."

  "What did you do to them, Logan? People don't hunt down someone over nothing."

  "It was a long time ago. There were five Geraldo brothers back then. I happened to be sitting with a man
they intended to kill. When it was over, three Geraldos and my man were dead. I ran for it and got away by boat. Vasco and Jorge have been looking for me ever since."

  Mickey was stunned. The years of joking about spying and secret agenting were suddenly sour in his mind. The Geraldos, men from another world, were real and he did not know what to do.

  "Did you kill any of the brothers, Logan?" Mickey almost feared the answer.

  There was no pride or defiance in Logan's response. His voice was matter-of-fact. "I shot all three of them, Mick." Logan shook his head. "I was just lucky. Andre, the man I was with, took the first bullets and that gave me time. My company moved me out fast and I used another name on the other side of the world from then on."

  "But the Geraldos just kept looking for you?"

  "Yep, they offered big rewards, a matter of family honor as they see it. So, somebody finally took their money and here they are."

  Mickey felt anger. "What rat would sell you out like that?"

  Logan was grim, "Probably a lot of little rats. Each knew a piece and finally the Geraldos had enough."

  They sat quietly, each lost in his thoughts. To Mickey the story was dreamlike. How unlikely that international killers stalked his friend of a lifetime. Here, in Perry County? Hard to accept.

  Logan said, "If it were just Vasco or only Jorge, I might be able to handle it. Together, I can't see a way."

  "What'll they do, Logan? Lay out and try for you with a scoped rifle?"

  Logan's lips pursed, "Maybe not. Vasco will want it face to face. There wouldn't be the same satisfaction in sniping. The Geraldo like their work, Mick. I figure they'll come close with either a pistol or shotgun."

  "Oh man!"

  "Don't get me wrong. Vasco won't set up a High Noon shoot out. He'll pick his time and have the drop. He'll want me to crawl and he'll want to see his bullets hit."

  Mickey stood up and paced violently. "Damn it, Logan, what are we going to do?"

  Logan rose, stretching muscles stiffened from carrying Mickey in the parade.

  "I'll work on it. You stay away, Mick. If you aren't close by, they'll concentrate on me."

  Logan suggested, "Look, it would please me if you would pack Sis and yourself up and move over to the old Ruby place for a few days. You can't do any good here and you might even hurt my chances."