Red Highway

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Now,” said Norris, flipping to a fresh page in the notepad, “about the crime-fighting techniques in Drumright.”

  “I think you’ll find that this station is as well-equipped to deal with your average holdup man as any. Better than most, in fact.” The policeman was still rankled by Macklin’s outburst, but his confidence was returning.

  Norris stopped writing and looked up. “Some of the bigger stations have machine guns.”

  The officer nodded proudly. “We have machine guns. Bulletproof vests, too.”

  The reporters looked at each other. “Really?” said Norris, eyebrows raised. “Could we see them?”

  “Sure. They’re in the locker. Come on.” Crane got up and led the way to the rear of the station house, where a massive gun locker towered in the corner. He unlocked it with a key attached to his belt and swung open the door.

  Norris whistled. A row of six brand-new Thompson submachine guns gleamed in the diffused light from the ceiling, their carved wooden grips cocked at an upward angle. On the shelf below them, arranged in an overlapping pattern, was an equal number of hefty-looking quilted vests which resembled the chest protectors worn by baseball catchers. Boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly in the bottom of the lockers, as were extra steel drums for the machine guns.

  Norris didn’t take his eyes from the guns as he asked, “Mind if I look at one?”

  Crane smiled and lifted out one of the weapons, handing it carefully to the reporter. Norris stroked it and slid back the breech quite expertly.

  “I see you know how to handle a rifle,” commented the officer.

  “I’ve done some shooting, mostly on target ranges.” Norris let the action slam shut with a satisfying crack. He looked up. “Is it loaded now?”

  “Yes, it is; be careful.”

  “I will.” The reporter hugged the machine gun to his waist and swung the barrel into Crane’s midsection. “Stick ’em up.”

  The other man, Macklin, heaved a second gun from the locker, racked in a shell, and pointed it at the officer.

  Crane hadn’t yet grasped what was happening. “Be careful with those,” he admonished. “They’re loaded.”

  Macklin sneered. “Shut up and reach!”

  Now the officer understood what was happening. His eyes swept the station hopefully, searching for another blue uniform like his own. There was none. Meekly, he raised his hands. “Who are you?”

  “None of your business.” It was Macklin who had spoken. His face was hard and his voice had taken on a new authority. Balancing the Thompson on one forearm, he reached into the locker and hefted out another, which he tossed to his companion, and tucked yet another machine gun under his free arm. “Let’s go.” He backed toward the door, keeping both weapons trained on the astonished officer.

  Norris, equally armed, and with three extra drums of ammunition clapped beneath his right arm, hesitated. “What about the vests?”

  “Fuck the vests,” shot the other. “Jesus Christ, we don’t want no goddamn vests!” He began moving faster.

  The other man backed out more slowly. Crane stared at the muzzles of the two machine guns as they moved away. Then the door slammed shut.

  Outside the station, Alex Kern turned and picked up speed, trotting toward the white Buick coupe parked beside the curb. “Okay, let’s take off.”

  “Just a second.” Virgil Ballard leaned one of his machine guns against the nearby “No Parking” sign and wheeled to face the police station. He crouched and squeezed the other gun tighter against his hip.

  Alex’s eyes grew wide. “Virge! No!”

  Virgil aimed the Thompson at the big front window and cut loose. Yellow flame stuttered from the barrel. The glass shivered and fell apart, sending a hail of glittering slivers onto the sidewalk. The black letters that spelled out “Drumright Police” separated and collapsed, the metal frame that held them wrenched free, and the whole mess caved inward, disappearing beneath the bottom edge of the window.

  Inside the station, Officer Crane hit the floor just as a huge shard of glass knifed through the air where his head had been and shattered against the bare brick wall. He resolved to remain where he was until the commotion was over.

  The pattern of bullets tripped up the outside wall, exploded a globe light above the front door, and ripped across the metal plaque marked “Police.” Then the gun jammed. Virgil was struggling with it when Alex punched the Buick’s starter and brought the engine into action with a roar. Virgil gave up and climbed into the car. He leaned out and snatched the extra machine gun from the “No Parking” sign just as the wheels grabbed and began rolling.

  Chapter Ten

  Chester Hollis bounced and swayed with the gyrations of the old truck as it roared over the top of the hill and descended toward Picher. Seated as he was with his legs dangling off the back of the trailer, he contemplated the Oklahoma landscape as it receded rapidly before his eyes and wondered how much of it was going to be taken over by the banks by the end of the month. It was likely that his fellow oil workers in the box were thinking the same thing, because they, too, were silent for the most part, perhaps only half listening to Luke Shiver’s harmonica as it trilled over “Red River Valley” near the front of the truck.

  Chester himself had little to fear from the banks’ proposed foreclosures, since he and his wife Flora had paid off the mortgage on their half acre on the other side of Picher over a year before, but many of his friends were not so fortunate. His best friends, the ones with whom he had gone to school so many years before, owned farmland that was mortgaged to the hilt on the edges of the vast oil fields. This was the property that would be snatched up by the panic-stricken banks, these the people who would be forced to lead a drifting, nomadic existence once their roots had been destroyed. It was enough to make him throw up his hands in despair, yet it was also enough to make him feel grateful, for the first time in his life, for the dirty, rigorous, but relatively secure position he held working for the oil company.

  Luke must have noticed the melancholy that had settled over the tired group, for his harmonica stopped in the middle of a refrain and launched itself immediately into the livelier strains of “Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me.” The mood of the others began to perk up, and some of them joined in singing.

  Chester formed the words in his head, but he didn’t sing along. He was thinking about his friends. He watched the reddening sun as it descended over the distant mountain range, eyeing the shrinking space between them. It didn’t look like it was planning to come up again.

  The truck bounced to a sudden stop, almost tossing Chester and a few others off the back. He twisted and craned his neck so that he could see above the peeling wooden sideboards. They had stopped before the entrance to Picher’s main street. Chester could see the blacktop just beyond the truck’s discolored windshield, while the road behind the trailer was unpaved gravel. Something red glared and pulsated in the mouth of the wide street. “Cops,” commented a blackened worker at Chester’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me old Snail-ass is gettin’ a ticket for speedin’!”

  A state trooper appeared around the end of the trailer, wearing a buff-colored uniform and campaign hat. His right hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun. He stared into the oil workers’ faces one by one. “You fellers got names?”

  Chester led off with his full name, followed by the others. Luke Shivers took his harmonica out of his mouth just long enough to give his name to the trooper, then thrust it back against his lips and began a subdued version of “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.”

  The officer turned to the paunchy truck driver, who had just joined him. “That right?”

  “Yes, sir, officer,” nodded the driver. “I’ve known most of these men all my life. They’re all good old boys.”

  “All right, then,” said the other. “You can take ’er on through. But don’t stop. For nothing. These boys mean business.” He gave the trailer a smart slap, like a horse, and disappeared behind the sideboard. The d
river followed him.

  While the other workers engaged in speculation among themselves over what was transpiring, Chester strained his ears to hear what the driver and the policeman were saying. The driver swore once, good-naturedly, and the other said something that sounded like “Ballard,” but that was all Chester could hear. The name meant nothing to him.

  The engine growled, turned over, and the truck jolted into motion, passing the stationary police car as its master stood beside it with one foot propped up on the dusty running board. There was another marked car on the opposite side of the street, and Chester noticed a group of uniformed men standing in the doorway of the Picher Print shop, their shadows stretching to the middle of the street in the late afternoon sun. Something was about to happen. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

  As the truck rumbled past the cafe, Chester made up his mind. He snatched up his black lunch pail and hopped off the end of the trailer.

  “Hey, Chester!” hollered one of the oil workers from inside the box. “Where you goin’?”

  Chester cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back: “Get me a bite to eat! You guys go on!” He waved and stepped into the little cafe.

  The skinny cook looked up from the counter and smiled as Chester entered, her buck teeth showing over her lower lip. “Hi, there, Mr. Hollis,” she said. “Ain’t seen you since God knows when.”

  Chester smiled back. “Cuppa coffee, Amy, please,” he said, and took a stool that afforded him a good view through the window.

  Hazel had seen the state trooper before he came through the door of the print shop downstairs. He had paused by his car as the big truck pulled away, then turned and pushed his way through the other three officers positioned in the doorway of the brick building in which she kept her apartment.

  Hazel’s heart began thumping. At first she didn’t know what to do. She thought of leaving, but there was only one way to get to the ground floor, and that led down the very staircase that the officer would soon be using to get to her room. Then she remembered Virgil’s letter.

  Swiftly, because she fancied she heard the trooper’s heavy tread on the staircase, Hazel punched open the overlapping panels that were used to adjust the volume on the Victrola, drew out the letter that Virgil had sent her from Drumright, and set fire to it with the aid of a kitchen match. The flame took hold and bloomed a bright yellow, hungrily devouring the thin paper. She dropped the flaming fragment into an empty glass on the pantry table just as she heard a board creak outside her door, then slapped it out with her hand and wafted the dry smoke through the open window. Then she answered the door.

  The trooper was so big he filled the tall doorway. He was holding his campaign hat in his hands. Hazel felt herself growing faint, and forced a smile. “Yes?”

  “State police, miss,” answered the trooper in an official-sounding baritone. “I’m Sergeant Fowler.”

  “Is there something I can do for you, Sergeant?”

  Fowler’s eyes were hard. “Yes, ma’am. You can stay right here.”

  Hazel put on a surprised expression. “Whatever for? Is there something wrong?”

  “There won’t be, if you do what I say.” He stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation. His well-cropped hair almost touched the ceiling, and Hazel was reminded of the difference between Virgil’s height and Fowler’s. And Virgil was far from short.

  He stood just inside the doorway, looking around. Hazel caught her breath when his eyes lighted on the glass, but they moved on again, sweeping the rest of the apartment. “What’s in there?” he demanded, indicating the door on the opposite wall.

  “Just the bedroom,” she replied, and injected a seductive note into her voice. “Would you like me to show it to you?”

  “No.” The sergeant actually blushed and turned away from the door.

  “Look, Sergeant, would you tell me what this is all about?” She was becoming angry.

  Fowler looked at her smugly. “Quit the playacting, lady. You know as well as me that your boyfriend’s coming to see you. Maybe tonight.”

  “What boyfriend?”

  “Ballard. Virgil Ballard, as if you didn’t know. Your boyfriend. The one who sent you the letter you just burned—” he nodded toward the glass with the curl of carbon in the bottom—“and put out with this hand.” He took her right hand and turned it over, revealing the black smudge on the bottom of her palm.

  Hazel snatched her hand away. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you, Sergeant?” There was a knife edge in her voice.

  “We try. I’m sending an officer up to stay here with you until we have Ballard in custody—or dead. I wouldn’t worry about him; unlike your boyfriend, Officer Gordon is a perfect gentleman.” He put on his hat and opened the door, then gazed down at her. “Behave yourself.” Then he left.

  Hazel waited, steaming, until the big sergeant’s footsteps retreated down the stairs. Then she grabbed her purse from the table and headed for the door.

  A blocky-looking policeman was standing in front of the door. He touched his hat brim. “Officer Gordon, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

  Hazel slammed the door so hard it disappeared behind the jamb.

  The hood of the little coupe glowed red in the rays of the departing sun as Virgil braked to a stop in front of the Picher Print Shop. He climbed out and looked up at Hazel’s bedroom window, but the fierce glare from the west made a completely opaque surface of the single pane.

  The street was deserted. It was that time of day when the worktime activity of the small town had ground to a stop and everyone was taking a breather before launching into their nocturnal pastimes at the cafe and the tiny speakeasy at the other end of the town. For this reason, Virgil felt no suspicion when nobody appeared on the sidewalk. He did, however, feel lonely, and almost wished that Alex Kern had joined him instead of remaining in Commerce. Almost, but not quite. It had been hard enough to talk Alex into laying over an extra night before heading across the state line without having him drive. Of the two, Virgil was the only real driver.

  He stepped up onto the sidewalk, shot one glance back at the car to reassure himself that the trunk lid was locked securely over the single machine gun he had brought with him, and turned toward the print shop. He was just about to push open the door when he noticed something strange.

  It took him a few seconds to realize what it was, and when he did, he began backing carefully across the sidewalk toward his car. The presses weren’t running. Virgil knew the old printer who ran the shop, knew him well enough to know that he never let his presses cool off until well after sundown. But the silence that had greeted him at the door was enough to warn him that something had interfered with the printer’s schedule, and that something could only be one thing. With this in mind, he backed off the curb and drew his new Luger from its holster beneath his jacket.

  “Freeze!” shouted a voice from behind him.

  Virgil whirled to face a local policeman standing in the middle of the street, his revolver steadied in two outstretched hands. Virgil fired from the hip. His bullet struck the officer’s cap with a sharp slap and sent it spinning off his head.

  The cop, surprised, hesitated for an instant before returning the fire. It was all Virgil needed. He hit the street and rolled just as the bullet passed through the spot where he had been standing, and came up on the driver’s side of the car. He snapped off a wild shot that nevertheless sent the policeman ducking for cover on the opposite side of the street. Then something smacked the side of the coupe, and Virgil turned to see a uniformed state trooper in the doorway of the print shop, a curl of smoke spiraling up from the barrel of his pistol. The fugitive fired point-blank at him and missed.

  Now men in uniform came pouring out all over the street. They appeared in the alleys, came out of the buildings, and rose from behind low board fences alongside the sidewalks, each bearing a weapon. Some had shotguns, and Virgil saw the sun glint on their barrels as t
hey were brought into play. Lead screamed from every direction, skinning within inches of Virgil’s head and plowing deep into the wooden frame buildings that lined the street. It had suddenly become very difficult to survive in Picher, Oklahoma, if one’s name was Virgil Ballard.

  Chester Hollis was cemented to his stool in the cafe up the street, watching the spectacle openmouthed. The skinny cook had fled screaming out the back door after the first shot. On the range behind the counter, Hollis’ coffee, unattended, boiled over and sizzled on the hot griddle. He paid it no heed.

  The snapping and popping and zinging that came to his ears from the other side of the big plate glass window was something new in his experience, as was the sight of armed men darting back and forth and firing at each other. It was like a movie, only real, larger than life, and being played for his benefit alone. He wouldn’t have missed it for all the oil in Oklahoma.

  The object of it all, the man crouching beside the bullet-spattered automobile, suddenly rose and fired at some unseen danger to his left. Hollis slid off the stool to see what it was. At that instant, the plate glass window bloomed at head level, collapsing in a shower of flashing pieces. He never heard them hit the floor. The bullet struck him in the forehead and he sat back down, dead.

  Virgil laid down a pattern of gunfire in a half circle around him and leaped behind the wheel of the coupe. A bullet smashed through the windshield and whizzed past the brim of his hat as he hit the starter. The engine exploded into operation, the tires squealed, and the car careened down the middle of the street, its driver hunched low behind the dashboard.

  Then the second part of the trap sprang shut. Without warning, a black and white patrol car pulled out of a side street and stopped, blocking the north end of the main thoroughfare. Virgil hit the brakes and tore the wheel to the left. The white coupe screamed into a 180-degree turn, its rear end skidding around within inches of striking a lamppost on the right. Then it leaped forward again, hurtling southward.

  Another patrol car came out to block that exit, and thus drive home the last part of the trap. Virgil saw its nose come sliding out of the alley and stomped down on the accelerator. The engine howled. A blast of wind whipped his hat off and bounced it into the back seat. Through the windshield he saw the body of the police car join the nose, could make out the features of the officer in the driver’s seat as he turned to watch the coupe slow down.