by Ronald Kelly
It wasn’t a bluegrass or pop song at all, but good old rock and roll.
The tune Doctor Leech had been playing on his five-string banjo was an unlikely choice. An old cut off Van Halen’s debut album.
A song called “Runnin’ With The Devil”.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
That night, as he prepared for bed, Keith heard the phone ring down the hallway. A moment later, his grandfather called out to him. “Keith, it’s for you,” he said.
Puzzled, Keith left the spare bedroom and went to where Grandpa McLeod stood with the receiver in his hand. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Rusty,” said the old man. “But keep it short. It’s already past your bedtime.”
Keith rolled his eyes. “Aw, it’s only ten-thirty!” he said. He studied the expression of disapproval on his grandfather’s face. “Okay, okay. Just a couple minutes.”
Jasper handed the boy the phone, then went back to the kitchen, where he had been drinking coffee and flipping through a copy of The Progressive Farmer.
“Yeah, it’s me,” said Keith into the receiver. “What’s up?”
“You getting ready for bed?” asked Rusty.
“Sure. Why?”
“Are you going to try out that card Doctor Leech gave you?” he wanted to know.
“Come on!” laughed Keith. “You’re still not swallowing that crap about it making you dream, are you?”
“Who knows? I’ve heard of weirder things before. Besides, what harm is it gonna do? Just slip it under your pillow and go to sleep. If it works, it works. If it don’t, then you were right, and I reckon you’ll let us hear an earful in the morning.”
“You better believe it,” said Keith. “Are Maggie and Chuck going to do it, too?”
“Yep. I’ve already talked to them. So, are you?”
“Maybe,” Keith told him. “Seems pretty stupid to me. Like sticking your molar under the pillow for the Tooth Fairy to swap out for a quarter.”
“Could be a heckuva lot more interesting than a quarter,” said Rusty. “If it works like that fella promised.”
“Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.” Keith considered it for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll go along with this kooky experiment. We’ll compare notes in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” said Rusty. “Goodnight, cuz.”
“Sleep tight,” replied Keith. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He hung up the phone and started back toward his room.
“Goodnight, Keith,” Grandpa called from the kitchen.
The boy considered ignoring him, then changed his mind. “Yeah, goodnight.” The tension between them had eased a little, but not so much that you could really notice.
A moment later, he was back in his room with the door closed behind him. He undressed, changing into a pair of pajama pants and an old Atlanta Braves t-shirt. He pulled back the covers of the big feather bed, then turned to where his clothes laid on the floor.
He dug the oversized card out of the back pocket of his shorts and studied it. The drawing of the hard-nosed detective was kind of neat, done in shades of light and shadow like an old 40’s art-deco illustration. But that was all it was, in his opinion. Just a silly card with a picture on the front. Not some mysterious portal to a universe of secret dreams.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he said, then reluctantly stuck the card beneath the big goose down pillow he had slept on since arriving at his grandfather’s farm.
Keith turned off the lamp on the nightstand, then lay down, leaving the covers pooled around his ankles. He settled into the soft depths of the feather mattress, listening to the sounds of crickets in the yard beyond the bedroom’s open window. It was warm that night. A little humid, but not all that uncomfortable.
It wasn’t long before he had fallen fast asleep.
And began to dream.
~ * ~
He found himself stepping from a gray brick doorway, taking a bank of concrete steps two at a time. Disoriented, he looked around and saw that he had just exited a tall building that looked more like a fortress or a prison than most. Two lighted globes at either side of the entrance read POLICE.
As he moved away from the precinct building and into the misty rain of a late summer evening, his surroundings became more defined. Old Fords and Packards drove up and down the street, while a paperboy across the street hawked the evening edition of the local newspaper. The boy looked odd, dressed in his flat cap, striped shirt, and knickers, but somehow Keith knew that the clothes were acceptable in the place where he now existed. He studied his own attire. He wore baggy gray pants, a pinstriped shirt and dark tie, a tan trench coat, and a gray felt fedora cocked at a rakish angle. He felt something heavy beneath his left arm and found it to be a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol in a leather shoulder holster. In the side pocket of his coat was a black wallet with a brass badge and a card identifying him as a detective, first class.
As he reached the curb, he breathed deeply. The air reeked of leaded exhaust fumes, wet asphalt, and Chinese food from a joint a half-block down the street. He wasn’t there a second, when a navy blue sedan pulled up next to him. A fresh-faced rookie cop hopped out, leaving the engine idling.
“I brought your car around like you asked, Detective Bishop,” he said.
“I owe you one, Muldoon,” he said, not surprised that he knew the beat cop by name.
He slipped into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Although he had never driven a car in his entire life – and particularly not an old car like this – Keith found himself fully capable of handling the vehicle. He shifted into gear and, pulling away from the curb, merged with the traffic. Soon, he was cruising down the rainy street, heading east for the far side of the city. Although the metropolis of bustling streets and tall skyscrapers was alien to him, he seemed to know precisely where he was headed.
He arrived at the waterfront a few minutes later. The streetlights were few and far between as he cut the sedan’s engine, as well as its headlamps. He sat in the car for a moment, studying the area. Long warehouses of corrugated steel stood on both sides of the street and, a few yards away, the avenue came to a dead end. Beyond it he could see the shine of the moon on dark water. A light fog began to roll in off the harbor and, before he knew it, the piers nearby were choked in mist.
Keith left the car and stood there for a second, listening. A foghorn bellowed in the distance, but that was all he heard. The air smelled different there; salty, with the odor of fish. Probably from the cannery that stood down the street a few yards away.
He reached past the lapels of his trench coat and withdrew the .45 from its holster. He cocked the slide back and checked the breech. There was a single brass cartridge there, just behind the barrel. He knew there were others waiting patiently in the slender clip that filled the hollow of the pistol’s thick butt. Keith returned the gun to its holster, then started down the street, toward the waterfront.
He clung to the shadows that choked the wet avenue. Keith passed a couple of seedy brick buildings’ the Seaman’s Hotel and Rocky’s Gym. Soon, he reached the waterfront with its deserted docks and tall stacks of wooden crates and chained bundles, waiting to be picked up by ships. He moved silently among them, alert, listening for the least little sound.
It came a moment later. The crisp strike of a sulfur match against the heel of someone’s shoe. He turned to see a face briefly illuminated in the square of a shadowy doorway, followed by the glowing tip of a cigarette in total darkness.
“That you, Lester?” he asked, taking a couple steps forward.
“Keep your voice down, copper,” rasped the man in the doorway. “This place has ears. Big ears. And if they don’t like what they hear, you could end up at the bottom of the bay in a pair of cement galoshes, feeding your face to the fishes.”
An instant later, Keith was in the cover of the doorway, standing opposite the man he had come to see. In the faint glow of the cigarette, he recognized the pale face with its w
eak jawline and nervous twitch at the corner of the right eye. It was Lester, one of Keith’s stool pigeons. Lester had spent several stints in the Big House, but had lived comfortably there, squealing on one convict after another. That seemed to be his calling in life, both inside the joint and out. Lester would spill the beans on anyone, from the lowest pickpocket to the biggest crime boss… for the right price.
“What have you got for me, Lester,” Keith demanded. “I haven’t got all night.”
“Just hold your horses!” hissed the stoolie, glancing around nervously. “First the cash.”
Keith peeled a bill off a bankroll and slapped it in the man’s sweaty palm. “There you go. Now sing.”
Lester cleared his throat. “The one you’ve been looking for is called the Big Man. Deals in everything you could imagine… gambling, prostitution, gun-running. Drugs and booze, too. Reefer, heroin, cocaine, bathtub gin. But he’s a mean son of a bitch. Many have crossed him, but few have lived to tell about it.”
“Where’s his operation located?” Keith asked.
Lester was about to let the cat out of the bag, when a sound caused him to flinch. The scrap of shoe leather against pavement, only a few yards away. “That’s all for now, flatfoot,” he said. He ground his cigarette butt against the palm of his hand, plunging the doorway into darkness. “I gotta run.”
Keith reached out and grabbed the man by the lapels of his navy pea coat. “Not so fast, Lester,” he growled. “Not until I get my money’s worth.”
“You’ll get it later,” said Lester, pulling away and glancing around nervously. Then he stepped out of the doorway and headed along the dock, toward the darkness of an alleyway.
As Keith himself stepped from the doorway, two gunshots rang out. He saw Lester clutch his chest and fall to the wet pier, dead before he hit the boards. Keith drew his gun and started toward the stoolie’s body. Two men stood next to a tower of packing crates; a small, rat-like fellow in a zoot suit and a big goon of a bruiser in an overcoat and black hat. The bigger thug raised his arm, aiming a Saturday Night Special straight at the cop. Keith stepped back into the doorway, dodging a bullet that glanced off a corner of the brick wall. He reappeared a second later, his own gun extended at arm’s length.
“Freeze!” he warned, steadying his aim.
The big fellow ignored his warning. He cocked his piece and prepared to fire again. Keith beat him, squeezing the trigger first. The big automatic bucked in his hand. Blood blossomed on the goon’s chest, squarely above his heart. He fell like a brick wall, facedown into a puddle of water.
The ratty guy turned and fled. Keith caught up to him before he could reach the open street. He laid his hand upon the man’s narrow shoulder and spun him around on his heels. “You’re coming with me,” he said.
“Not on your life, gumshoe!” squealed Ratface. He whirled, the gleaming blade of a stiletto in his hand. Keith leaped back, dodging the switchblade. Skillfully, he managed to block the man’s flailing knife and countered it with a solid haymaker. The little man succumbed the instant the detective’s knuckles connected with his chin. He dropped his knife and fell on his back in the wet street, throwing up his hands in defeat.
“I give up, copper!” he cried. “You got me!”
Keith grabbed the criminal by his necktie and hauled him to his feet. “Okay, who sent you?” he demanded. “Who put the hit out on Lester the Stool?”
“I ain’t squealing!” said Ratface. “No way. I’d be a dead man if I did.”
“You may end up in worse shape if you don’t,” threatened Keith. He took a pair of nickel-plated cuffs from his pocket and snapped the bracelets around Ratface’s skinny wrists. “Come on! We’ll see if you’re more cooperative once we get back to the station.”
A few minutes later, Keith had piled the thug into the back of the sedan, then slipped behind the wheel. With squeal of tires on wet pavement, he made a sharp U-turn, then headed away from the waterfront and back toward the heart of the city.
~ * ~
Rusty found himself on horseback in the middle of a burning desert.
The earth was hard-baked and cracked beneath the gelding’s faltering hooves. The blinding eye of the noon sun glared down at him, mercilessly, filling the air around him with waves of shimmering heat. He took a canteen from where it hung from the saddle horn, but immediately knew that it was empty. It had been for a day now.
Rusty ran a hand over his blistered lips and peered ahead of him. In the distance stood tall buttes, followed by more scrubby desert. The horse beneath him snorted feebly. “I know, Cyclone,” he told the animal soothingly, reaching down and patting it lovingly on the shoulder. “I’m mighty thirsty myself. But we’ll come to a waterhole before long. I promise we will.”
Comforted by his master’s words, the horse trudged onward. An hour later, they crossed a dry wash and came upon a small grove of barrel cactus. Rusty swung down from the saddle and stumbled to the biggest of the bunch. He took a Bowie knife from his gun belt and sawed the flowered top off the stubby cactus. He then sliced a clump from the soft, white meat of the plant and squeezed droplets of moisture into his mouth. He cut another piece and did the same for Cyclone.
“Maybe this’ll do us till we can get to town,” he said. The horse snorted and seemed to hold his head up a little higher than before.
Later that evening, they spotted something upon the horizon, silhouetted against the backdrop of a brilliant western sunset. A scattering of false-fronted buildings standing in the middle of nowhere. “There it is, boy,” he said, his voice full of relief. “Canton City. Our new home.”
It was dark by the time they rode past the town limits. The place was far from being a city. It was no more than a dozen buildings surrounded by a few tarpaper shacks that served as homes. Rusty’s attention was drawn by the clink of a hammer against iron. He rode over to the livery stable and saw a big, burly man standing at an anvil just inside the doorway.
The man noticed him, laid down his mallet, and walked over. “Howdy, stranger,” he greeted, although his eyes were a shade suspicious. “Can I help you?”
“I need to find a place for ol’ Cyclone here,” said Rusty. “A clean stall and a bale of oats. Maybe a grooming every day or so.”
“How long are you figuring on staying?” asked the blacksmith.
“As long as you folks aim to have me around,” said Rusty. He pulled back the front of his duster, revealing the brass star pinned to his vest.
The liveryman’s ruddy face brightened. “Why, you’re the new marshal!”
“That I am,” replied the lawman. “And your name would be?”
“Sanderson,” said the blacksmith. “John Sanderson. I own the livery here in town.”
Rusty swung down from his horse and handed Sanderson the reigns. He took his saddlebags and rifle in hand, while the liveryman escorted the gelding through the big doorway of the stable. “Take care of him and I’ll settle with you later. Right now I’m going to the saloon yonder for a drink and a bite to eat.”
“You be careful though, Marshal,” warned Sanderson. “Kid Calhoun is over there and he ain’t in the best of moods. He’s all liquored up and itching for a fight.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Rusty, heading down the dusty street toward the oasis of light that was the Wagon Wheel Saloon.
A moment later, he was pushing through the batwing doors into the saloon. A piano player was tickling the ivories in the corner, while a bald bartender with a handlebar mustache and garters on his sleeves served drinks. Rusty stepped up to the bar, setting his gear on the floor beside him. He nodded at the two men who stood at the bar next to him; a gold miner and a cowpoke. They nodded back, then shifted nervous eyes behind him, toward a table in the far corner of the room.
Rusty glanced over his shoulder. Sitting at the table was a young man dressed entirely in black from head to toe. He wore a smart-alec grin on his handsome face and a brace of silver Colts around his waist. On his lap, giggl
ing and drinking from a bottle of whiskey was buxom, red-haired saloon girl dressed in red silk and black lace.
“What’ll you have, stranger?” asked the bartender, stepping up to the bar. “Beer? Red-eye maybe?”
“Buttermilk,” drawled Rusty. “A tall, cool one.”
The bartender nodded and went to fetch Rusty’s order. A loud guffaw abruptly split the air. “Buttermilk!” roared the man in black. “The man’s got a craving for buttermilk of all things!”
Rusty turned and eyed the gunslinger sharply. “What of it?” he asked.
The humor in the gunslinger’s face suddenly faded. In its place grew something dangerous and volatile. “Do you know who I am, mister?”
Rusty nodded. “Some sawed-off blowhard named Kid Calhoun, I reckon.”
Rage suddenly filled the young man’s dark eyes. He stood up, dumping the girl onto the saloon’s sawdust floor. “I don’t take kindly to being called such,” he said. He stepped away from the table and spread his arms, positioning his hands loosely over the butts of his forty-fives.
“It’s the plain and simple truth,” said Rusty. “Take it or leave it.”
“Oh, I’ll leave you… lying stone cold dead on this floor,” said Kid Calhoun. “Now step away from that bar and draw your gun.”
The cowboy and the miner quickly took their drinks and left the establishment. The bartender stepped out of the line of fire as well. Slowly, Rusty turned around and swept the right side of the duster away, revealing his pearl-handled Colt. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he warned. “It’d be much better if you just walked out of here, climbed on your horse, and rode out of town. Nice and peaceful like.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’d like that,” sneered the Kid. “But it ain’t gonna happen that way. The only one who’s gonna be leaving Canton City is you. Nailed inside a pine box, heading for a hole in Boot Hill.”
“Then you won’t listen?” asked Rusty with a sigh.
“Hell, no!” gritted Kid Calhoun. “Now do as I said. Draw!”
