Red Highway

by Loren D. Estleman

  The proprietor could now see his customer’s face in the light of the shaded lamp that hung from the ceiling. It was a young face, freckled slightly from the Oklahoma sun, and set off by a pair of cool blue eyes that regarded Shipman steadfastly. His nose was finely structured, so much so that, from the front, one could only make out the slight depression above the bridge and the contours of the well-formed nostrils, while the rest of it disappeared against the background of the evenly tanned face. Only the mouth, the wide, thin-lipped mouth, set as it was, served to suggest the possible presence of a violent temperament. It was a cruel slash in what was otherwise a peaceful visage. Shipman also noticed a few wisps of sun-bleached hair which the somber hat had been powerless to imprison. Obviously a farm boy who had made good in the city.

  “Merry Christmas, sir,” the druggist said smiling. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yeah.” The young man brought an ugly, foreign-looking automatic pistol from his coat pocket and aimed it at him, “Reach.”

  Shipman’s eyes flitted to the gun, then back to the stranger’s face. He smiled uncertainly. “Why—what kind of a Christmas joke is this?”

  “I said reach!” The man’s voice was savage. He brought the gun up higher.

  The druggist was puzzled. Was this for real? Surely no Christian would consider robbing his fellow man on Christmas Eve! He hesitated, searching the stranger’s face for some sign that he was joking. Then the man fired.

  Shipman heard the pistol roar and saw the flames leap from the barrel before he felt anything. Then something red hot drilled into his insides. He gasped and doubled over, feeling the warm blood flow between and over the fingers he had clapped over the wound. He sank to his knees and toppled sideways to the well-swept floor, hearing the rattle of the stranger’s hand in the drawer of the cash register. Footsteps hurried away, the little bell jangled, and the door banged shut. Then came darkness.

  Above his head, the record had stuck again. It kept repeating, “Sleep, sleep, sleep.”

  Virgil wound the second-hand Buick around the corner and into Tulsa’s business district. He liked the spacious sedan, but every time he put his foot down on the accelerator, he missed the little Marmon roadster he had been forced to leave behind in Stillwater. If he had plugged that jerk in Chickasha who had seen him escape from the Farmer’s Bank & Trust job in the little black bomb, he would still be using it. It was the all-points bulletin put out by the Stillwater police that had turned the trick; he’d barely had time to ditch it and buy the Buick before every damn cop in town had zeroed in on his trail. But he couldn’t complain about the used heap, for it had been in his possession over a year without incident. He was glad nobody had seen him leaving the drugstore back in Okmulgee, or he would have to give up this one, too.

  It was January, 1927, the dawn of a new year, but Tulsa hadn’t changed. Bigger, perhaps, than when he had last seen it, and noisier; Virgil didn’t notice it. The multi-laned streets were no less confusing than they had ever been, and the skyscrapers still reached high into the air on both sides, making a tunnel of the broad avenue. A few buildings had been added since his last visit, their clean new facades contrasting sharply against the drab grays and browns of the edifices around them. Not far away, construction was under way on still newer buildings. Bricks and lumber and equipment and bags of cement were piled in stacks in the center of vacant lots and near half-finished foundations, some of the stacks spilling over onto the sidewalks. Some rich bastards showing off their millions, thought Virgil, and turned the corner. The big business boom had infected everybody. Including bank robbers.

  There were numerous hotels in the area, any one of which would have been suitable for Virgil, had it not been for their rates. It had been a long time since his last big score, and he had long since gone through his cut from the Farrell days. He was searching for a more rundown building, the kind that advertised low rates. Something between a flophouse and the Savoy. With this in mind, he guided the car away from the downtown area and toward the poorer section of Tulsa.

  It was fortunate for Officer William Creiderman that he was standing near a telephone booth when the blue Buick came down his street. He had just stepped out the door of the Atlas Cafe, his stomach comfortably packed full of doughnuts, and was frowning at the coffee spots on the front of his blue uniform tunic when the sound of tires squeaking on the wet pavement made him look up. He eyed the car, looked up at the driver, and blinked.

  He had seen that profile just a few minutes before, in the center of a wanted circular his station had received that morning. He took a copy of that circular from his pocket and studied it. He had been right. The same young face, without the hat, peered out at him from beneath the familiar WANTED legend. The man’s name was spelled out underneath the pictures, but that was of no importance to Creiderman. He shoved the circular back into his pocket and stepped into the phone booth, dialing as he watched the big sedan recede into the distance.

  Virgil could read the vertical sign through the window of the shabby lobby: THE WAYFARER MOTEL. Most of the electric bulbs in the sign had been smashed, leaving three at the top and two at the bottom to cast a ghostly glow over the black letters. His car was parked in the street below and across from the sign, evaporating into the swiftly gathering dusk. He wondered if it would be safe in this neighborhood.

  He struck the crusty bell impatiently with the heel of his hand. A tiny cloud of dust rose from the battered desk as he did so, sliding and settling into a fan-shaped design across the blotter. It was another minute before the fat little man appeared in the doorway of the room behind the desk, his bald pate shining sickly green in the light of the shaded bulb that hung from the ceiling. He wore a white shirt, yellowed at the collar, and a neutral-colored vest that had worn fuzzy around the seams and buttons. He reached the desk and stood looking up at Virgil expectantly.

  “How about a room?” said Virgil.

  The man grunted something unintelligible and flipped open the thick book on the counter. He found a page that was half filled with scrawled signatures and turned the book toward the customer, at the same time holding out a fountain pen. Virgil took it and scribbled the name “Oscar Miller” across the first blank space.

  “The pen,” the clerk reminded him mildly.

  Virgil, who had been in the process of absentmindedly slipping the fountain pen into his jacket pocket, hesitated and returned it to the clerk’s outstretched hand. The little man turned and unhooked a tagged key from the board behind the counter, but held it back instead of handing it over. “That’ll be two bucks for the day—in advance.”

  The customer reached inside his jacket and produced his billfold, from which he extracted two bills, and laid them in the clerk’s palm. They disappeared immediately and the key was extended. Virgil grasped it and dropped it into his side pocket. “I’ll get my luggage.”

  He crossed the dusty-tile floor, opened the door and went out. A blast of cold air greeted him as he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed for his car, causing him to turn up the collar of his jacket.

  Night had descended while he was inside the building, its inky blackness creeping up to the circle of lamplight that now surrounded the Buick and crouching inside it. The overcast sky effectively concealed the moon and stars so that the lighted windows of the skyscrapers on both sides of the street seemed to be floating against a background of deep ebony. It was a typical winter night in Tulsa, thought Virgil as he pulled open the door on the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel.

  There was a movement in the back seat and something hard was placed against the base of his skull. Virgil stiffened and glanced up at the rear-view mirror, but the shadows in the back seat were too dense for him to see who it was. What he did see were three men in blue uniforms converging on the car, their exposed revolvers glinting in the light of the street lamp. Virgil thought about the Luger in his shoulder holster, then felt the prodding of the other gun against the back of his neck, and relaxe
d.

  “Now, just behave yourself and we’ll all live longer,” hissed a voice behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  “Will the defendant please rise.”

  Virgil obeyed the judge’s flat command, rising unsteadily to his feet. The jury’s verdict still rang in his head. His forehead felt cold and damp.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Virgil Ballard, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree. I have no choice but to sentence you to prison for the rest of your natural life. This court is adjourned.” He rapped his gavel sharply on the bench and left the room.

  There was a tense silence following the statement, broken only by the rush of reporters through the big double doors at the back of the courtroom. Virgil stood staring at the spot where the judge’s fleshy face had been, half expecting the entire nightmare to dissolve beneath the clamor of some celestial alarm clock. It didn’t.

  The court-appointed lawyer got to his feet and placed a fatherly hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid,” he murmured. “It was the best I could get you. The D.A. was pushing for the chair.”

  “Shut up.” Virgil kept his eyes on the bench.

  The lawyer nodded gravely. “I understand.”

  Hazel didn’t move from her seat for a long time after sentence had been passed. She knew that she should be with Virgil, that she should comfort him, tell him she’d wait for him, but she couldn’t. She just sat there, staring at his back, and wishing she hadn’t come. The spectators began filing out of the courtroom, some of them stealing glances at her as they went by and whispering to their companions. She didn’t pay any attention to them. She just kept watching Virgil, her eyes following him as the two policemen took him gently but firmly by the arms and escorted him down the aisle and out the door. Then she wept.

  “Ballard?” The warden looked up at Hazel, taking in her yellow silk turban, narrow skirt, high-heeled pumps, and, because he was human, lingered a moment on her shapely legs, then brought his gaze back up to fix her large green eyes. “You’re his wife?”

  “His fiancee,” lied Hazel. She had heard that the Oklahoma State Prison at McAlester only allowed inmates to be visited by their attorneys and members of their families. While the authorities’ records would show that Virgil had no wife, she hoped they would make an exception for his “future intended.” She looked at the warden hopefully.

  The gleam of admiration vanished from the middle-aged official’s eyes, to be replaced by a paternal sobriety in his heavy knitted brows and downturned mouth. “I’d advise you to forget him, miss. It will be a very long time before he sees the light of day, if ever. He’s in for life, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Could I see him?”

  “That would be highly irregular. The regulations of this penitentiary specifically state that a prisoner may only receive visits, as well as correspondence, from the members of his immediate family. And, of course, from his attorney. I seldom make exceptions in this regard.”

  Hazel was growing impatient. “The only reason that I am not a member of Virgil Ballard’s family is because he was arrested before we could be married. Are you going to forbid me to see the man I love on such a technicality?” She stared down at him from above the desk, her eyes flashing hostility.

  “As I said, it would be highly irregular.” The white-haired official lapsed into silence for a long moment, during which he appeared to be battling with himself. Finally his face cleared and he looked up at Hazel. “Very well, miss. I’ll let you talk to him. But only for a few minutes.” With that, he rose from his seat, crossed to the connecting door between his office and the adjoining one, and opened it. “Would you come in here, Rodriguez?”

  A moment later, a tall, dark-complexioned guard, whom Hazel had seen earlier in the outer office, came in, wearing a well-pressed gray uniform that looked new. He closed the door behind him and glanced expectantly from Hazel to the warden.

  “Show this lady into the receiving room,” the warden directed him, “and have inmate Ballard sent there too.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young guard held open the door and made a polite gesture that meant Hazel should go first. Then he followed her out of the room.

  The receiving room, at the end of a dingy green corridor several floors below the warden’s office, was a large, high-ceilinged room, divided by a long table that stretched from one side of the room to the other. A wire grid ran down the center of this table, and a row of straight-backed wooden chairs were drawn up on each side, some of them occupied. The guard led her to one of these and she sat down. “He’ll be here in a moment, miss,” he said quietly, and left.

  The room buzzed with voices. Convicts in somber gray work clothes engaged in low conversations with their wives and lawyers, obviously attempting to keep beyond earshot of the placid-faced guards who stood nearby, listening. The electric lights were off, so that the only illumination came from the gray, diffused sunlight that filtered in soft beams through the barred windows near the lofty ceiling. The effect was depressing, the drab forms of caged men huddling in half shadow and attempting to establish some link with the lighted world beyond the walls sparking a sobering reaction in Hazel.

  She rummaged through her purse, located her compact, and began repairing her make-up. The face in the tiny mirror looked about the same as it had when Virgil had last seen it, the night he had taken her to the theater in Oklahoma City, but she wasn’t sure. Would he like the paler shade of lipstick she had adopted, or the fullness in her cheeks that had replaced the Garbo-like hollows? At least the warden had seemed to appreciate her looks. But then, he was an old man. It was likely that he would find any young woman attractive. But would Virgil? She was considering these questions when the dark young guard appeared in the mirror and took his place beside the door. She snapped the compact shut and looked up. Virgil was standing on the other side of the table, gazing down at her.

  He was wearing a gray linen uniform with the number 28715 stencilled across a patch on his shirt pocket. For a moment, Hazel was reminded of the days when gray work clothes were the only kind of apparel Virgil owned. But one look at the hard lines in his face was enough to wipe away any resemblance between this Virgil and the old Virgil. This man was a caged animal.

  The guard who had escorted him to the receiving room remained beside the door, his face a blank mask. Virgil slid out his chair and sat down opposite his visitor.

  “Hello, Hazel.” The greeting was flat and unemotional.

  Hazel smiled uncertainly. “Hello, Virgil. You look healthy.” Actually, his complexion was sallow and he looked quite ill.

  He ignored the observation. “I saw you at the trial. You didn’t come over to where I was sitting.”

  “I was—afraid.” She lowered her eyes for an instant, then brought them back to his. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

  Virgil didn’t answer, but kept watching her face.

  She went on. “You didn’t come to see me for so many months. I thought you had somebody else. That I didn’t mean anything to you anymore.”

  “You’re a fool.” There was a faint trace of tenderness in his tone. “You’re mine, no matter how long I’m gone. I thought you knew that.”

  “I’m yours. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to speak to you at the trial. That’s why I’m here now.” Tears shone in her eyes. “I came to tell you that I’ll be waiting when you get out.”

  “Don’t.”

  Hazel blinked. A tear came free and rolled swiftly down her right cheek. “What?”

  “I said, don’t wait.” Virgil’s face was impassive. “Hazel, I’m gonna be in here for the rest of my life. I’ll never come out. What good is it gonna do for you to wait?”

  “Stop, Virgil! Please don’t say any more.”

  Virgil showed no sign that he’d heard her. “I’m not making any sacrifices,” he said. “I’m just trying to stop you from doing something stupid like becoming an old maid for my sake. It isn’t worth it.”
r />   “Stop!”

  “Find some guy and marry him. Have kids. But please don’t make me feel like a heel because we can’t be together. I can’t live with that. Not in stir.” He rose and summoned the guard who had brought him. The man in uniform came over.

  Hazel stood up an instant after Virgil did, her fingers clutching the iron grid that separated them. “Virgil! Don’t go!”

  Virgil smiled for the first time since he entered the room, a genuine, cocky grin. “So long, Garbo.”

  “Virgil!” shouted Hazel, but it was too late.

  There was no Ralph Moss in McAlester to occupy Virgil’s time by planning great robberies. When he wasn’t manning the big steam press in the prison laundry, he spent the few minutes of leisure time allowed him hanging around the inmates’ barber shop. While the barber, a trustee, snipped away at his fellow convicts’ locks, Virgil would sit down in the chair nearest the radio and listen.

  It was a big set, one of those knob-studded metal cabinet receivers with a huge horn speaker curving up from its top like the funnel of a battleship. Virgil would cross his legs and pretend to read a magazine while in reality keeping his ear cocked toward the sounds that came from the monstrous machine. The big radio was Virgil’s only link with the outside world, and he was determined to make use of that link whenever possible.

  On February 14, 1929, one year and eight months after Virgil Ballard had begun his stay in McAlester, seven men were found machine-gunned to death in a garage on Chicago’s North Clark Street. Within two days, it was announced over the barbershop radio that the probable instigator of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre was none other than Al Capone, and that one of the suspected killers was Fred (Killer) Burke, former Midwestern bank robber, late of the Detroit Purple Gang.