“You best git if you know what’s good for you,” I said.
The squirrel didn’t move.
I sighed and went back to the comic.
I’d actually read three full pages before glancing over the top of the book again. The squirrel was still there, only he’d moved six or so inches closer.
“Git!” I yelled and then I tossed the glass of water at it.
The squirrel stood its ground as the glass sailed uselessly over the thing’s head. It continued to stare.
"Dang it!" I stood. "Quick staring at me you dern tree rat!" I tried to kick the fluffy little rodent, but it hopped nimbly to one side, so I missed and fell off the porch.
I rolled about a bit in the grass, the dew soaking my bathrobe.
That’s when the rage took over. I’m not an easy man to anger, but once I am, watch out. It’s not a quality I’m proud of, but it’s there all the same.
I jumped back up to the porch and did my best to stomp the squirrel into the woodgrain. It just danced back and forth, dodging each stomp as I cursed and fumed.
“Stupid tree rat!”
STOMP
“Get off my dern porch!”
STOMP
“Don’t make me kill you!”
STOMP
The squirrel remained. I had but one choice left.
I drew both pistols, thumbing back the hammers as I cleared leather.
The squirrel blinked.
I smiled.
"Norman?" a voice said from behind me.
I turned in surprise. A woman in a Stetson hat and the khaki uniform of a Eudora Police Officer stood at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch. She was looking up at me, her face painted with worry and concern.
“Hey, Pat,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I released the hammers slowly and holstered the guns. “Dang squirrel went and got my dander up. Won’t get off the dern porch. Just keeps staring at me.”
Patricia McCrea had been Chief of Police for Eudora throughout the last three decades. We go back a ways, Pat and I. I don’t have many friends, I used to, but they grew old and died. Pat was someone who was there for me when I needed her, and for that alone she will always have my trust and respect, while I will always have her back.
I glanced over at the squirrel in time to see it bound off the porch and run up a tree, disappearing within its foliage. It was all I could do not to put a few rounds into the tree.
I turned back to Pat, a sheepish smile on my face.
“You okay, Norman?” Pat said, stepping up onto the porch.
I must have been quite the sight standing there in my undies, gun belt strapped around my bathrobe.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay, Pat?” I said.
“Well, good Lord, Norman,” she said. “Look at you. I mean, I get a call that a walrus broke into your house and tried to kill you, and now I find you throwing down with a squirrel. I’ve already gone gray, Norman, I don’t need you adding to my stress.”
“Heck,” I said, smiling. “You’re still the prettiest thing within fifty miles.”
“Only fifty?” she said, redness rising in her cheeks.
“A hundred,” I said. “Two hundred. Heck, it if weren’t for that husband of yours, I’da swooped you up long ago.”
“You’d have done nothing of the sort, Norman Oklahoma. You had your chance but chose not to take it.”
“There were extenuating circumstances, Pat,” I said. “That pixie infestation kept me a mite busy for a couple years.”
“Pixies,” she said. “It’s always something with you, Norman.”
“Ain’t no pixies around now,” I said, smiling and putting an arm around her. “Nor husbands, neither.”
“Knock it off,” she elbowed me in the ribs.
I jerked my arm back and yelped.
“One of these days Jim may take issue with your incessant flirting,” she said.
“Aw, Jim don’t mind,” I said, pretending to comfort what should have been sore ribs. “He won, I lost. He and I both know it.”
“Well, I mind,” she said. But then she smiled to show that she didn’t really mean it.
She knew I didn’t mean anything by it. Sure, there was a time that I would’ve pursued her. But she and I both know that such a relationship would never work. Eventually she would grow old and die while I would just keep going on. She was happy with Jim, and I was happy for her. Beyond that was a friendship like no other.
“Did you come out here all by yourself?” I asked, looking beyond her and seeing no other vehicle in the drive but her old Bronco. “You’re gonna need at least two other guys when the Walrus wakes up.”
“Ah yes, this walrus you called about.”
Pat knows what I do for a living, in theory. She’s never come face to face with a monster.
“Come inside and see for yourself,” I said.
As Pat entered the house, I took one last look around the porch, and just as I thought, the squirrel was back.
“You and me ain’t done,” I said, pointing a finger at the bushy tailed monster.
The squirrel continued to look up at me, and for a moment, I could have sworn that it smiled. I sighed and followed Pat into the house.
I found her standing in the kitchen, frozen in place, staring down at the walrus. She tried to look like she wasn’t about to question everything she’d known in life, but I could see the shock peeking out from within her hard shell.
“You know—” she cleared her throat and began again. “You know, I’d heard rumors about a hit man that went by the name ‘Walrus,’ but I’d always assumed it was just some stupid nickname.”
“It is a stupid nickname,” I said. “It just happens to be apt in this instance.”
“Well,” Pat scratched at her head a moment. “I guess I need to call in a couple of the boys to haul this thing away.”
“That’s what I was saying,” I said. “I’d offer you something to drink, but my fridge and coffee maker are both on the fritz.”
“That’s okay,” she said, still staring down at the Walrus, a finger on her chin. “You think that tape is going to hold him?”
“No idea. He threw my table about like it was nothing.”
“I’d been wondering about that,” she said, looking over at the table that now sat upside down over the couch in the adjoining living room.
“I’d hoped some of your troopers would show up before he came to and slap some leg irons on him or something.”
“I’ll make a call; see to it that they bring in something sturdy to hold him.”
“Nothing can hold me,” the Walrus spoke, sitting up and smiling.
I drew both pistols and thumbed back the hammers, the barrels pointing at the Walrus, one for each eye.
“Nothing, huh?” I said. “How about a bullet or two?”
The Walrus didn’t reply, instead he struggled against the tape at his wrists.
“Stop that,” I said.
He didn’t.
“I’ll shoot you,” I said. “Don’t know if it’ll put you down, but I bet it’ll hurt something awful.”
The veins in his neck stood out as he pulled against the tape. The tape itself began to stretch. It would only be a matter of minutes, possibly seconds, before he was free.
And that’s when Pat turned around and ran out the front door, leaving me alone with the Walrus.
5
HOW TO TAKE OUT A WALRUS
I’VE ONLY EVER HAD to fire a gun in my house twice.
The first time was back in 1967. There was a Bigfoot involved. It was this whole thing. I ain't prepared to get into it just now.
The second was in 1982. I shot and killed a werewolf in my bathroom. I don’t recommend it. They bleed a lot. I went through a lot of towels that day. In the end I wound up redoing the entire bathroom: floors, paint, the whole nine yards.
I didn’t really feel like shooting anyone today. I don’t like killing. I won’t hesitate to do it if it needs to be done
, and with some of these monsters it’s your only real option. But I take no joy in it.
Well, that ain’t entirely true. Taking out a rascally vampire can often make me smile, and the thought of putting a bullet into Abner Lemonzeo warmed my heart a bit.
But the Walrus? Well, he was just doing what he’d been paid to do. I’d rather see him in chains. Besides, I couldn’t afford to redo the kitchen like I’d done with the bathroom.
“You keep working that tape and I’ll have to put you down, son,” I said, my pistols steady, unmoving, rock solid.
He ignored me.
I took a quick glance behind me at the front door where Pat had fled just moments before. It wasn’t like her to run from a fight, and that had me concerned. Turning back to the Walrus I struggled to try and explain to myself just what Pat had done. Surely she hadn’t run. She must have gone for back up. That was the only logical explanation.
Meanwhile, the thick layer of tape that surrounded the Walrus’s wrists looked to be reaching their breaking point.
“I’m warning you,” I said, then reversed the pistol in my right hand so that I held it by the barrel. I leaned in close to the smelly beast and rapped him a smart one across the top of his head with the butt of the revolver.
If I’d hurt him, he was good at hiding the pain. Instead of groaning or shouting he just swiped at me with his hands. Lashed together as they were, they made one big fist, which took me fully in the shoulder. My arm went numb. I didn’t notice this right away, my attention had instead been drawn to the fact that I was flying through the air.
I landed on my back in the middle of the upturned table that lay in my living room, but I still held on to my guns, and that’s what really matters. It took me a moment to get up, and as I stood, a sharp pain lancing into my spine, the front door flew open and Pat walked in.
In one hand she held a pump-action shot gun. In the other she steadied a small battering ram that had been slung over her shoulder. They’re employed by police forces the world over to knock in doors.
“Catch,” she said, and tossed the shot gun my way.
I holstered my pistols and caught the shot gun. Pat, in the meantime, had taken the ram by the two flexible handles that looped out of its side.
The ram was a little over three feet long and must’ve weighed forty to fifty pounds. Pat swung it like a pro. As the tape around the Walrus’s wrists began to tear, the ram connected with the side of his head. The sound of the impact was thick and meaty, like hitting a side of beef with a sledgehammer.
The Walrus dropped. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, he let out a little sigh of pain, and then fell back like a sack of bricks.
“I thought you’d run out on me,” I said.
She just laughed. “Cover him with that scatter gun while I call this in,” she said, pulling a phone from her pocket. “He should be out for a while, but I’d like to get a couple deputies out here as soon as possible.”
I pumped a round into the chamber, keeping both eyes fixed on the Walrus. I noticed that blood trickled from a small cut on his temple where the ram had hit it. The blood was a dark gray, almost black. The fridge impacting with the top of his head had only left a lump. I wanted to find that curious, but frankly I just couldn’t make myself care that much. I just wanted him out of my house so I could get dressed and have my morning coffee.
“Everyone but Tim and Lyle are on their way,” Pat said as she pocketed her phone.
“So two guys then?” I said.
“No, three.”
“You hired a new officer?”
“I did,” Pat said. “She just started today.”
“She’s going to have quite the initiation then,” I said and smiled.
“Here,” she held out her hand. “I’ll take the shot gun. You go put some pants on.”
In the bedroom I pulled on a dark gray suit, adjusting the tie carefully in the mirror. I figured I’d need to pay a visit to Lemonzeo. I can’t have people just sending folks out to kill me without some form of retribution. He needs to know that doing such just ain’t in his best interest. But that could wait until I’ve had my coffee.
I looked myself over in the mirror. I buttoned up my vest and adjusted the tie a few more times. I left the suit jacket on the hanger. I don’t wear suit jackets. They get in my way when I’m going for my guns. The long coat is fine, but a suit jacket falls just at that spot where it bothers me. Maybe others can do it, but not me. I can’t explain it, so I ain’t gonna.
The last thing I did was to strap on my guns. I checked each of the Peacemakers, rotating the cylinder as I slid each shell out, and then back in. Some may consider it obsessive, but I always like to check, double check, triple check, and then check once more before I check the last time. You can never be too careful when preparing for a gun battle.
Was I going into a gun battle?
Not likely, but I didn’t think I’d wake up to find a killer walrus in my kitchen neither, so I felt it prudent to prepare.
I stood, snatched the trench coat and hat—a fedora—from a hook on the wall near the door. I threw the coat over one arm and placed the hat on my head as I left the room.
I’ve been told, all too often, that I look like one of them FBI fellas from the 1930’s. And I suppose I do. Once I find something I like, I tend not to let it go.
I found Pat still standing over the Walrus and I tipped my hat to her.
She smiled in return.
We remained in silence for a few minutes, both of us watching the unconscious form of the killer mutant. The blood that had oozed from the wound on the thing’s head had stopped flowing and had congealed on the skin. The wound itself looked less shallow and not as long. It appeared to be closing, meaning that the Walrus, like me, healed with a quickness.
“You going to tell me why this thing was after you?” Pat asked, breaking the silence and interrupting my thoughts.
“Abner sent him,” I said.
“Lemonzeo?” she said. “I knew he’d gotten out, but what’s he got against you?”
“He’s still a little sore that I got him arrested in the first place, I guess.”
“Talk about holding a grudge.”
“I know, right?”
“You planning on doing something about it?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided,” I lied.
“Come on, Norman. We don’t lie to each other.”
“I might go have a talk with the man,” I said.
“Talking’s fine, Norman,” she said. “It’s the shooting that’s going to get me involved.”
“I ain’t never shot no one that didn’t deserve shooting,” I said.
“Regardless, we still have laws, Norman. You go downtown and do something stupid like shoot Abner Lemonzeo, well, I’m going to have to deal with that.”
“I have no plans to shoot the man, Pat,” I said.
“Good, keep to those plans.”
But, as I looked down at the Walrus and thought about what Lemonzeo had done, as I wrapped my mind around the fact that were it not for the lyrics to a Beatles song I might be dead, another Beatles song began to slide through my thoughts.
Happiness is a Warm Gun.
I couldn’t help but smile.
6
MURDER MOST CASUAL
ABNER LEMONZEO PACED THE floor of the Pub, one hand in the pocket of his custom tailored blue suit, the other holding an unlit cigarette. The urge to smoke was a distant memory, despite where he’d spent the last five years, but he couldn’t think without a cigarette in hand, so he’d always kept a pack around.
He turned to look at the clock over the bar. They were late, the men he was waiting for, if men could be the right word. He wasn’t sure anymore. So much had changed while he was away. Men or not, he couldn’t abide lateness. Were they anyone else, he might have had them killed. But not these two. These men—this deal—meant money. And money was the one thing he desperately needed.
He glanced at the floor and
shook his head. Had no one bothered to run a mop or vacuum over this place while he’d been gone? The bar, called the Pub, wasn’t a big place. A few booths on each wall and four stools in front of an adequately stocked bar. The financial intake had never been enough to do more than break even each year, but he’d always wanted to own his own bar. Yet now, as he kicked at a clump of mud that some hillbilly had tracked in, he wondered if it had been worth it.
It was going to take weeks to get this place back into shape, and he didn’t know if he had the energy anymore. Kicking once more at the mud, he swore under his breath and returned to his pacing.
His circuit took him to the front of the Pub and he paused to look out onto the street through a window stained with five years of cigarette smoke. He sighed, itching to go back behind the bar for glass cleaner and paper towels. Running a finger over the layers of grime, he sighed once again when nothing, no dirt or grit, came off onto this finger. The stains were there to stay. He’d have to replace the glass, cleaning just wouldn’t do it.
The windows were more like walls now, blocking his ability to see much beyond the darkened glass, so he abandoned the window and opened the door. The early morning sun shone in at him and he squinted, shielding his eyes with the hand that still held the cigarette. Five years ago he’d never be caught dead showing his face at such an early hour. But now, well he’d become accustom to rising with the sun.
He walked back behind the bar and poured himself a drink. Things had really gone to hell while he’d been away. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to walk back into now that he was out, but broke and powerless hadn’t been high on the list.
The door opened and two men walked into the bar. For a moment Lemonzeo thought he was seeing double.
Both men wore matching suits, dark and expensive. But the similarities didn’t end there; these men were brothers, twins, identical in almost every way. Except for the hair.
“You’re late,” Lemonzeo said.
“Yes, we hope you will forgive us this transgression,” the one on the right said, removing his sunglasses. His hair was black. So black that your eyes wanted to avoid it. It was also a conservative cut, but expensive.
The Adventures of Norman Oklahoma Volume One Page 3
