Rafferty

by Bill S. Ballinger

‘No,’ said Rafferty. ‘I don’t want him. He can go to South America. I just want to talk to him for five minutes. But leave me out of it when you arrange the break. He doesn’t know me.’ He switched on the soft dashboard light, and withdrew his hand from his overcoat pocket. In it, he held a .38. His voice was nearly inaudible under the music. ‘I’m warning you, Luke,’ he said. ‘Don’t mess this up... and don’t talk, because if you do... either Alabama gets you... or get your first. Understand?’ Luke nodded. He didn’t reply.

  Chapter Nine

  Waupun, Wisconsin, is a small, flat town located in the northern part of the state. It is distinguishable from other small, flat towns by two features. On the outskirts of the town, on the highway up from Madison, the state capital, is a large, gray, bleak building which is the state penitentiary. The other feature is a cast-bronze nude statue of an Indian maiden, which is located in the center of Waupun’s main street. Of the two features, the penitentiary is usually better remembered by persons passing through the town.

  Some six weeks after Rafferty’s conversation with Luke, a small panel Chevrolet truck drove at a conservative thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed down the highway toward Waupun. A quarter of a mile before reaching the penitentiary, the truck passed a man walking along the shoulder of the highway. He was bareheaded and dressed in well-washed gray denim shirt and trousers. Within the walls of the penitentiary he was known as No. 17924, a lifer; a quiet man, now turning gray, with the peculiar limestone-textured skin which results from equal parts of lack of sun, ill care, and... possibly... hopelessness. His good behavior had earned him a job as a trusty in charge of production records for the nearby dairy farm which was owned by the state and operated by the prisoners to supply the penitentiary with its own dairy products. The time was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon.

  Fifty minutes remained before check-in time at the prison, and it had been exactly ten minutes since he had checked out of the farm.

  The truck pulled up beside the prisoner and stopped, blocking him from view along the highway, although at that precise moment no other cars were in sight along the road. The prisoner immediately opened the front door and slipped into the seat beside the driver. Instantly the truck started, picking up acceleration until it reached thirty-five and then maintaining that rate of speed.

  ‘You Eddie Stack?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied the man beside him. ‘I been expecting you.’

  The driver nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘In the back of the truck is a suit, hat, and overcoat. Better put ’em on.’ Stack crawled over the seat into the back of the truck and began changing his clothes. As they entered the outskirts of Waupun, he returned to the seat beside the driver. ‘Here’s the plan,’ the driver said without removing his eyes from the road; ‘here’s what you do. You got nearly an hour before checkup time... not too much, but enough. In town here, you pick up a car; it’s a Plymouth with Wisconsin plates. Take it easy and stay on this road... Keep going till you get to Colorado Junction, unnerstand?’

  ‘I got it,’ said Stack.

  ‘It ain’t a hot car, so it won’t be reported missing. You leave it at Colorado Junction and I’ll pick it up later tonight. At Colorado Junction, you’ll find a blue Buick with Wisconsin plates. The keys are under the rug in the front. In the luggage compartment are a set of Illinois plates and Utah plates. Somewhere down the line you better switch ’em around a couple times. And don’t take no chances, the Buick’s hot.’

  ‘Where’d you pick it up?’ asked Stack.

  ‘Iowa.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stack replied, ‘I’ll stay away from Iowa.’

  ‘Better get rid of it as soon as you can spot another,’ continued the driver. ‘They’re going to trace you to Colorado Junction anyway, and they’ll probably find out about the Buick. Of course they can’t tell if you’re headed for Minnesota, Canada, or Illinois, but just the same, get rid of the Buick soon as you can.’

  Stack nodded. The truck turned left into the main street, slackened its speed slightly, and drove along deliberately until it reached the small hotel. Across from the building, the Plymouth was parked beside the bronze Indian maiden. The truck stopped briefly, and the driver nodded toward the car. ‘There it is, pal,’ he said. ‘Keys are in it. Good luck.’ Stack stepped out of the truck, walked briskly across the street and slipped behind the wheel of the parked car. Within a matter of seconds the Plymouth pulled away from the curb, and drove carefully down the street.

  By the time Stack reached Colorado Junction, he had been missed at check-in and the alarm was out. He had, however, a margin of safety on his side. The first highway blockades to go up would be in the immediate vicinity of Waupun, and to the south. When he was not quickly picked up, the radius of the search would be extended in all directions, including the north. He realized that the authorities would first believe he had made a break for either Milwaukee or Chicago... both to the south and east of Colorado Junction. The search would inevitably turn to Minneapolis and St. Paul to the north and west, and northern Michigan to the northeast. And as the search lengthened, and he was not picked up in the direction of Chicago, his greatest safety lay in back-tracking toward that Illinois city. Also, at this beginning point of the search, the authorities would have no description of his clothes, or automobile... they would not even know if he was driving. His greatest danger for the present, however, was the fact that he was alone. These points he considered carefully as he drove north of Waupun. Colorado Junction is little better than a ghost town. It is nowhere near Colorado; it is not a junction point for a railroad, and consists of only a few houses, a number of deserted clapboard hotels, a general store, and a gas station. During prohibition days, it had been an active transfer point for bootleggers, and was a flourishing center of prostitution... the large seedy hotels running eight-hour shifts around the clock. But after repeal, it had deteriorated into a few cheap brothels operating entirely for a Saturday night clientele from the surrounding countryside. It had one point in its favor as a transfer point of cars for Stack: remembering its past glory, Colorado Junction had no love for the law.

  It was dusk when Stack parked the Plymouth behind a deserted hotel, edging the radiator of the car under a sagging, wooden service porch. The car was completely hidden from view of the street. Walking around the corner of the rotting building, he strolled casually along the street, his feet scuffing loudly in the lowering stillness. At the end of the street a blue Buick sedan was parked by an oil station. As he approached the car, he quickened his pace. The oil station was vacant, the door locked with a padlock. He walked up to the car, opened the door, and ran his hand under the edge of the rubber floor carpet. His fingers touched two keys. Withdrawing his hand, he seated himself behind the wheel of the car and started it, making a U-turn from the oil station and driving down the main street. A general store was lighted by flickering yellow lights, and when he passed it, he braked the car to a quick stop in front of the store. Entering it, he saw at the back of the long, narrow dusty room, a fat man, with heavy glasses and bushy white hair, reading a paper. The man put the paper aside and watched Stack approach without moving from behind his counter.

  ‘Got any shirts?’ Stack asked pleasantly.

  ‘Nothing fancy... work shirts and plain white ones,’ the fat man said, puffing.

  ‘A white one will be all right. Size fifteen neck.’ Stack waited patiently, his overcoat buttoned, collar turned up around his neck, while the storekeeper searched ponderously through a large drawer. Finally he returned to the counter with a shirt, pinned fiat over cardboard, and handed it to Stack.

  ‘That’ll be two fifty,’ he said.

  Stack paid him the money and laid an additional dollar on the counter. ‘I guess maybe I better get a tie, too,’ he said. ‘How about something in a maroon?’ The fat man approached him a moment later carrying a cherry red tie, stitched cheaply with white silk thread.

  ‘That what you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Sur
e,’ replied Stack, ‘that’s okay.’ He unbuttoned his overcoat, and removed the brown suit coat under it. ‘Mind if I put ’em on in here?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know I was going to stay out tonight, when I left home.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied the storekeeper. ‘There ain’t nobody around.’

  Stock removed the gray denim shirt and wadded it quickly into a ball. Swiftly he put on the white shirt and tie, and shrugged on his jacket and overcoat. ‘This town sure ain’t like it used to be,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘No,’ agreed the fat man, ‘it sure ain’t.’

  ‘I’m driving on to Superior tonight,’ Stack said. ‘Any place around I could pick up a jug to keep from going to sleep?’

  ‘You might be able to get one at Martha’s,’ the fat man replied.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Down to the corner, turn left... half a block.’ He looked at Stack appraisingly. ‘She runs a little bar; maybe she’ll sell you a bottle. Back of the bar, she’s got a cathouse. Can’t offer you much choice during the week... just her. Of course,’ he added fairly, ‘she gets a couple girls in from

  Milwaukee to help her out on the week ends. Sometimes they ain’t bad.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Stack, ‘thanks. Maybe I’ll get her to sell me a crock.’ He left the store and climbed back into the car. He drove to the corner, and turned left... pulling up in front of a small, narrow frame building. The window in front had been painted black, and on it was lettered the single word MARTHA. On the front of the wooden door was an aging beer sign. Pushing open the door, he entered a dark, musty room lighted by a row of red and blue bulbs set above a cracked mirror. In front of the mirror, a scarred bar ran the length of the short room. The room was deserted, but as the door slammed behind him, a middle-aged, horse-faced woman appeared and advanced to the bar, walking behind it. As she approached, in the dim light, Stack saw she was wearing rimless glasses, and her lifeless brown hair was pulled plainly back from her face.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her long, upper lip pulled back from yellowing teeth.

  ‘Sure,’ said Stack. ‘I want a drink. A shot.’

  ‘Bar whisky?’

  Stack nodded.’ Beer chaser.’

  ‘Hafta buy a full bottle of beer,’ she replied, pouring him an ounce of whisky in a chipped, heavy shot glass.

  ‘All right.’ Stack lifted the glass and leaned his elbow on the bar. ‘Got any girls?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Not till Saturday,’ Martha replied.

  ‘You here alone?’

  She didn’t reply. She removed a bottle of beer from beneath the bar, opened it with one expert twist, and placed the bottle on the bar beside him.

  Stack stood erect and walked to the back of the room, opening a door by the side of the bar. ‘What you looking for?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Stack replied. He continued walking, passing through a dreary parlor room, with faded furniture and a radio which was playing softly. It was empty, as were three tiny cubicle rooms, each just large enough to hold a wooden bed, slop jar, and a single chair. The bedrooms opened on a narrow hallway running to a bathroom. The hall rang emptily as he returned to the barroom. Martha was standing behind the bar, her hands concealed beneath it. Stack approached her cautiously, his own hands in his overcoat pocket. ‘Put your hands on top of the bar, Martha,’ he said softly.

  Slowly she moved her hands, placing them palms down, on the mahogany before her. ‘What is this, a stick-up?’ she asked, her mouth twitching nervously.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no stick-up.’

  ‘I don’t keep any money around,’ she explained.

  ‘I told you I ain’t interested in your money,’ he replied. ‘Get your coat and hat... wait a minute, I’ll go with you!’

  Her eyes were terrified. ‘What for?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re taking a ride,’ he said.

  ‘I never saw you before. What you got against me?’ Her voice cracked, and she wet her lips with her tongue.

  ‘I ain’t got nothing against you,’ said Stack. ‘And I ain’t going to hurt you. Shut up and do as I say, and in the morning you can come home as good as you left.’

  Suddenly her eyes lighted in comprehension. ‘They’re after you!’ she said. ‘I heard it on the radio a little while back. You’re the one they’re looking for from Waupun!’

  Stack regarded her silently for a moment. ‘That’s right,’ he said coldly. ‘They’re looking for me. I busted out.’ He pulled the gun from his pocket and held it in his hand. ‘I ain’t got time to talk,’ he said. ‘Let’s get your coat and hat and get out of here.’ He paced along the bar beside her, following her to the parlor, waiting for her while she slipped into a worn mouton coat and adjusted a faded hat on her head. She switched the lights out behind her and locked the wooden door to the street. Wordlessly, she climbed into the car, and Stack seated himself beside her. It was dark now, and he turned on the headlights, their beams cutting the empty street before him. He swung the car around, and circled past the main street until he reached the highway. There he turned east, watching the speedometer carefully until it reached fifty-five. He held it there.

  After a few minutes she said, ‘You are going to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘not if you don’t make me. I’m just taking you along for protection. The cops are looking for a single man... they don’t know how he’s dressed or if he’s driving. If we’re stopped... you’re my wife, and we’re from Utah. Get it?’

  ‘Yes, I get it.’

  ‘In the morning I’ll let you out some place around Sheboygan. If I can get that far tonight, I’ll be all right. You can go on home.’ He paused and looked at her, his face suddenly bleak. ‘The guys that helped me break out are all on the outside,’ he added. ‘If you got any ideas of talking after I let you go, they’ll look you up some night...’his voice trailed away threateningly.

  ‘I won’t talk,’ she said. She meant it sincerely.

  They approached a narrow, dark country road which intersected the highway, and he turned down it, driving a block into the blackness, then stopping his motor and switching off his lights. ‘What’s a matter? What’s wrong?’ The woman was alarmed, and he could hear the catch of fear in her throat.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, getting out of the car, and removing the keys. ‘I’m just changing the license plates.’ In a few minutes he rejoined her in the car, and returned to the highway. Once again heading east.

  At a little after eleven that evening, they were flagged to a stop at a road block, but as the officers approached and played their flashlights into the car, they were motioned on without questioning and Stack continued driving at a steady-pace. Once they stopped at a gas station and filled the tank, and Stack grasped Martha by the arm and they walked into an all-night diner, arm in arm. He ordered coffee and sandwiches and they sat at the counter eating them silently. Afterward, they returned to the car, and he continued his journey.

  In the morning they reached Sheboygan and he left her on the fringe of the downtown district. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You can go now. But remember, don’t talk.’

  She looked at him, relief and gratitude mirrored strongly in her middle-aged, scrawny face. ‘I won’t talk,’ she said. ‘I promise you...’ But she kept her hand on the car door.

  ‘What’s eating you?’ asked Stack.

  ‘I don’t have any money,’ she said. ‘I didn’t bring my pocketbook, so how’m I going to get back?’

  Stack reached into his pocket and peeled a ten from a thin roll of bills. He handed it to her. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and keep the change.’

  ‘That ain’t much,’ she replied, doubtfully.

  ‘Chalk it up to your time for the night.’ He smiled without humor, and drove away.

  By afternoon, he was in Milwaukee. He drove the car to the railroad station and left it in a nearby parking lot. Purchasing a railroad ticket, he was in Chicago some two hours later.

  In Chicago, he
disappeared completely from sight.

  In New York, Lieutenant Feinberg called Rafferty into his office. ‘We got a circular from Wisconsin,’ he said. ‘Eddie Stack crashed out of Waupun...’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Rafferty.

  ‘Two days ago. They haven’t picked him up yet.’

  ‘They know which way he’s heading?’

  ‘Not yet, but they think maybe it’s east.’

  ‘Anything to go on?’

  ‘They think they’ve traced him as far as Chicago. But they’re not sure. If he did get to Chicago, then he’s probably heading this way.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Rafferty. ‘He could be breaking for the Southwest or California. Chicago would be the best jumping-off place.’

  ‘I still think he’ll come east,’ said Feinberg stubbornly. ‘He’d know they’d expect him in California. Besides,’ he added firmly, ‘his wife lives here. You’d better put a string on her; he might try to get in touch with her...’

  ‘All right,’ said Rafferty. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Is she still living at the same address?’

  ‘I don’t know. The last I heard she was at that dive over near the club where she was working. But that’s a hell of a long time back. If she’s in town, I’ll find her.’ He returned to his own desk and sat down. After a few minutes he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

  A high, tenor voice answered the phone. ‘Jurgen’s Candy Store,’ it said.

  ‘When Luke comes in, tell him Arnie called,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the tenor voice, hanging up the receiver. Rafferty remained in close reach of the phone throughout the day, and in the late afternoon he recognized Luke’s voice on the line. ‘You know who this is,’ said Luke.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rafferty. ‘I understand my friend’s on his way. When do you expect him?’

  ‘Not for a while. Maybe three or four days. I’ve got it fixed for a ticket and passport on the Abaco which is sailing Saturday.’

  ‘When’re you supposed to see him?’