Wonder if that’s a gold piece stamped with a maple leaf.
Wonder if it got Baer Creighton’s fingerprints… like maybe a hundred other places on that car.
Or Mrs. Jubal White’s, since she handled so many gold pieces.
If that cop leaves, I got to wipe down the Mustang.
But he drop the coin in his pocket and face the string of waitin’ vehicles and motion us through. So now I got to either get placed in that Mustang with them girls and all they done, or I got to circle back and handle that copper so I can wipe the vehicle.
“Looks like time to go,” Abraham says. “Holler at you later.”
“Was good sayin’ hello.”
Get in the Eldorado and think quick.
You better get going if you want to know where that ambulance is going.
“They can’t be more’n a hospital or two in town. I got bigger fish.”
What fish?
“Fingerprints all over that vehicle.”
So what?
“I leave em, they know I was there.”
You won’t be here when they figure it out.
“Stop talkin’. Last thing I need is a cop wants to see the miracle pit bull.”
Put the Caddy in gear and creep respectful slow. Wave. Stop.
“Howdy, officer. Them people in the accident. They live?”
“They’re alive. One’s not so good.”
“’Preciate you.”
His eyeballs say he can size a man to the nearest sixty-fourth.
“I was thinking I’d buy that, if no one else did.”
“Come agin?”
“The Caddy. You bought Myrtle’s Eldorado.”
“It was that or marry her, so I ponied up the cash.”
He smile.
I smile.
“Be safe, sir.”
“Indeed, officer. You too. We need you on the line.”
I drive.
When he said the one girl was alive and the other not so good, they wasn’t no red nor juice.
Ride easy in town and work north as Abraham Church say. Find a mess of motels and stop in a parkin’ lot with the engine off and wonder how I’ll live if Tat and Corazon’s in jail the rest they lives and I squeak away ’cause I spot a chance to buy a Caddy and ditch ’em high and dry.
Wonder what kinda asshole let his companions go down like that.
These girls go to prison the rest they lives, and all I do is run and hide… I don’t want to carry that.
I guess morals and decency is worth the trouble.
“Joe, you got any thoughts on the subject?”
I appreciate you calling me a miracle.
Chapter Eleven
Tat and Corazon stay in the hot tub resort. I imagine they made use of the water them days I was on the road to North Carolina after the gold to try and buy Jubal off from goin’ to war on the organic dope family.
Other hand, I ain’t soak my ass in a tub or crick since I left the mountain lair what? Three week ago? Now I wash, accourse, but sometimes a fella want to settle and soak the dingleberries ’stead a rippin’ ’em off with a soapy sock.
Plus, motels got televisions and televisions got news. I want to know what happen to Tat and Corazon. Maybe find a morning paper.
So, I stay at a motel last night.
I watch the news and the pretty girl talk on the accident and the hospital, but says the girls is unknown.
First order of business is check out the motel.
Since I didn’t kill Jubal White nor anyone else I remember the last two week, I got a vision of me as a new man — but just a vision. Like maybe with the Eldorado and a skippy set of duds, one them bolo ties from Flagstaff and some genuine snakeskin shitkickers, maybe I’d be that somebody I saw myself as, if ever I was West. Sometimes back in Gleason when the hand was cramped from five letters and the fire was oak embers with wispy flat paper blankets — and ink glowed darker even with the paper turned to ash — sometimes I’d ponder on the big skies I saw on the TV Westerns as a boy. Shotgun Slade, Rawhide and Gunsmoke. Even watched the Little House and crushed on Mary — the skies was nothin’ to the size of her smile. But watchin’ the embers glow I’d think on what it’d be like to be a new man with no curse and no history, just a regular fool with a shit ton of gold and no shortage of amusement. See the Canyon and the Rockies. Maybe shoot stick every day for six seven week in some dusky bar ’til I get the skills back, then go take mac and cheese money from the college boys. And some them college people’d talk worldly things they got from books and I’d soak it all in, not so gullible as they, but thirsty for some of the experience I’d never had, some of the innocence.
I got the vision of all that bein’ possible if only I had the balls to turn ninety degree and put one foot in front the other.
But same time I got the certainty that without the ninety-degree turn, my path was set. All them men I sent forward is out there wantin’ a pound of flesh from my soul, and not just them but the ten hundred men I’m bound to send after ’em afore I go myself. So much, when I get there, they won’t be nothin’ left of my soul for the eternity. Make no sense, but them men is there ’cause I put ’em there. One man harm another, the harm don’t disappear when he die.
His bones carry the debt.
And since I got so much can’t be repaid in gold specie, but only in the next life, I don’t want no more, and I want to maybe grab some enjoyment outta whatever days I got left. After that it’ll be the damnation I got due.
Muse on all that after the news woman say Tat and Corazon was in the hospital near dead and surrounded by law folk want ’em the rest of the way dead.
Part of me want to find the local DMV and see ’bout makin’ this Eldorado legit with the plates, insurance, all that. Back of my mind I wonder if it’s ’cause I want to put some space ’tween me and Baer Creighton’s murderous past and all-but-set future. And the rest of me says I got no choice but stay and bust them girls out and set ’em free afore I get on about my solitary business.
Take Joe outside to do his business and the sun’s happy and the air’s cool. Make a man forget himself. Bust into song:
Does yer tits hang low
Do they jiggle to and fro
Can ya tie em in a knot
Can ya tie em in a bow?
While Joe wanders to the back lawn for a squat I open the Cadillac and get into the glove box. Pull the title and see if they’s instructions.
Joe havin’ trouble with last night’s Taco Bell.
Sam Hell?
Granny wrote Günter Stroh on the title as the buyer!
Joe look up like to pinch if I say so.
“No, handle your business.”
This is hind tit but maybe not the emergency it first seem. I close the eyes and look straight ahead. Think. Günter Stroh on the title. No way I’m gettin’ plates and registration without me bein’ Günter Stroh. Need all new documents. The birth certificate. The driver license. Social Security card.
But…
Just sayin’ I did come up with the way to be Günter, I wouldn’t be Alden Boone. I’d be twice removed from Baer Creighton.
Fact is, I don’t know what documents I need for a good registration. Maybe I can do this. Turn ninety degrees and put one foot in front the next.
“Pinch it, Puppydog. Lessgo.”
I glance up from one more look at the title and Stinky Joe’s already here.
Bag packed, I drop off the card for the door lock and consult the paper map in the Eldorado. Backroads took us from Glenwood but the 82’s a better return shot as it’s paved the whole way.
Navigate this turn and that. Find the 82 and juice the rear wheels ’cause the growl sound pretty. I recall just a little time back thinkin’ on that 90-degree turn. Just made one, but somehow right back where I come from. I’m lookin’ to find the girls and when I do it’ll be back to the moral considerations. Exactly how much killin’ can a good man do?
Zero?
All?
> It ain’t about whether killin’ an evil man’s good. That ain’t the predicament.
Presidents, police, judges and soldiers kill people on government authority, and if the citizen let the government do it, he share the benefit and the guilt. They put down the murderer, the raper and I don’t know who all gets the death penalty, but they remove them folk from society and every man woman child reap the reward. Less crime. Folks got manners. Troubles is met and friends abound. Each them people got a part, see? Each said, go on government, whack them people. Get ’em the fuck outta here. They ain’t no good and we don’t want ’em. They did it with they votes and they got the blood stain on the soul, same’s the hangman.
I was a murderer long afore Larry stole Fred. Every citizen’s a murderer. Consent of the governed.
I don’t give a rat fuck shit about that. Them people need to die.
But they’s a difference…
When my brother Larry stole Fred and Stipe and his boys put him in the ring, I didn’t want the killin’. But the evil was in the law and it was me or nobody. To hell with sharin’ the blame, I'll take it on myself as justice is more dear. I got little qualm with killin’ dog fighters. But the lawmen after… to tell it straight that FBI feller in the woods. If I had to do it agin….
If I had to kill him agin I would, but it’s a damn shame he’d make me do it twice.
Now I’m out on the limb. These men didn’t kill Fred, but they want to jail me and maybe kill me on account I did the job they didn’t. Police is a cartel. They want the exclusive on upholdin’ the decent relations in society, just same as the doctors want to be the only folks with a drug and the plumbers the only people can swap a pipe. Cartels. Guilds. All good so far, ’cept the doctor got to fix people and the plumber got to fix pipes.
This whole clusterfuck the last six months is on account the lawman sometimes don’t hold up the law. They want the exclusive on justice. We give it to ’em. Stand the fuck up, or men like me got to instead.
Glad I don’t pay taxes.
But what’ll the Almighty say?
Can’t wrestle these thoughts out my head.
“Good Lord Almighty, it’s Baer. I don’t care which way You settle it, but I’m lookin’ some resolution here.”
You think that’ll do the trick?
“Doubtful. But a fella want to try.”
I don’t get it. They wanted to kill you. Tried to kill you. You killed them. Is there a rule or something that says you can’t defend yourself? Who came up with that?
“Well, see here, Magnanimous Joe. The Almighty ain’t charged you with bein’ a moral creature, strictly speakin’, and that’s why you can’t cognitate the higher matters.”
Fart along the speed limit. By and by the mountains and dirt and trees give way to business and other assorted human artifacts. Cars like to get up on me. Drive close. Got the big city feel and make a fella want to loose a couple nine millimeter bullets in the air. Ask for some room.
But they’d say I was wrong.
Keep the eyes peeled and soon as I think I missed it, they’s a blue H sign pointin’ right. Brake and cut the wheel.
Signal.
Think on the gold in the trunk, wonder if it’ll spill. And what to do ’bout it? Problem with bank safe deposit boxes is they ain’t mobile. Limits a man’s options, he got to carry a hundred-pound bucket everywhere.
Tomorrow’s problem. Meantime very few folk would imagine a 1978 Eldorado got a bucket a gold in the trunk. They more like to steal the tires.
Stop on the road and see the Cancer Center sign on the roof of a building dropped from the old country, somewhere. Rock walls and beige walls and dark trim. Look like high end apartments more’n a hospital, but I swing to the lot… and see it ain’t so much a lot as maybe five six spaces. They must be parkin’ elsewhere, but while I’m here and they’s spaces… Back in with the windshield at the building. Give it an eyeball through the windshield. Don’t like where I park. Move the car under some shade at the end. Let both windows down so Joe can jump out on grass if he want.
“You gotta whiz or number two?”
I’m good without, thanks.
“Magnificent. I be back when I learn something ’bout the girls.”
Stinky Joe nod his head slow, recognize my virtue.
I step out the car and freeze. Didn’t even check the roofs for rifles. TV news say they got police-guarded murderers in there. I scan the windows but they’s no cops nor soldiers. No cop cruisers in the lot. Just Mercedes, Range Rover and one shiny gold Eldorado lookin’ better’n all the rest.
I’m about as fool as fool can be. What with the highway cameras and all the rest, they maybe by now’ve deciphered my image and located the file. Summoned the resources to take me down.
Swing my ass back in the seat and turn the ignition.
“Got the shave last night. Need the haircut.”
They won’t let you in without a haircut?
“It’ll soon come to that. For now I need the disguise.”
Ah.
Back to the main drag. Spot a tourist-looking joint with clothes in the window. They’ll overcharge by twice, but I got more gold ’n time so I’ll avail myself of the goods and spare the clock.
“Be right back, Joesemite Jam.”
Lock the doors with the windows down. Go inside. What fellas is shoppin’ got the fluffy boy sweaters and canvas man purses. Swallow down a little burp o’ bile. And I got the longish hair. Someone see me think I’m one these people. Shoulda got the haircut first. Full nazi on the sides.
“Can I help you find something?”
Her voice says pretty but I wince afore I turn. Shit. Pretty.
“Uhh, yeah. Need some trousers look like money, you know. Shirt. Maybe a suit coat goes with pants.”
“You mean, like, a blazer?”
“I ain’t a woman. I want a suit coat.”
“A sport coat.”
“That’s the thing. But it got to look like money, you know? I’m headed for Aspen and I hear they arrest poor folk.”
She wrinkle her face.
“Joshin’, is all.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Well umm. I have like, a boyfriend.”
“Took a long time, did it?”
“What did you say to me?”
“With your personality…” Her face’s so tight a rock band could drum it. “You strike me as the choosy sorta woman, I guess is the way to say it.”
“Oh. I guess. The pants are on the racks behind you and some are on the wall. Shirts are just farther down and the umm, sport coats are over here.”
She walk.
I follow to a rack.
“What sort of look do you want? I mean, other than money? What material?”
“Shit. You may’s well ask me the girl’s name that sewed it.”
She blink. Again. Blink. Jaw down three-quarter inch.
“What I say wrong?”
“The girl?”
“That hit the nerve, did it?”
Most sewin’ machines in the history of the universe been run by women, but sayin’ it hit the nerve.
She glance at the wall, high close the ceiling. “Nevermind. It’s nothing.”
I look at the wall, high close the ceiling too. One them black oval globes with the camera.
“You might should open your own shop.”
“Why?”
“No camera. You could take offense to anything you want.”
“Yeah. Help yourself to the pants.”
She walk away with the best fuck-you strut a woman ever strutted.
“But you’d need the startup capital, accourse. And maybe some customers offended by the same shit.”
I spend better’n ten minute findin’ trousers, shirt and coat. Maybe longer. She see me comin’ and go in the employees-only room but a fella with a wart on his neck takes my money.
I step out the joint so spiffy people’s like to think I own a strip mall. Drive the street and park at the first barber I see.
Go inside and it’s a wrinkled bald guy lookin’ through coke bottles. He arm me to the seat. I drop my ass. Lean back. He install the apron and snap close the neck.
“Just a trim?” he say.
“Nah. I want the full high and tight.”
“Joinin’ the service?”
Man got humor.
“Summer ’round the corner, is all.”
He buzz and zip and I think on Mae, since she’s the last one that buzzed my head while we was on the run in Kentucky, was it? Recall the dirt lot. Wonder how she doin’ with Nat Cinder. Can’t recollect her assumed name. Wonder if she’s the Mrs. Cinder now? I miss her whole life and now she tie the knot and I miss that too.
Barber hit a bump. Gouge the skin.
“You a bleeder?”
“Not usually at the barber.”
He keep buzzin’.
Three minute, maybe five. Vacuum. Mirror. Shit I’m old ‘n ugly. But I look like a regular asshole so even if I don’t blend, least I won’t be recognized.
I nod and the barber remove the hair gown. Pass him a twenty thinkin’ I get ten back and he say, “Come again.”
Guess I look the high roller.
Stinky Joe stand on the seat an study me up and down. Wag his tail. That’s encouraging.
What you need is a cowboy hat.
“I was thinkin’ that too. But not one of them tourist-to-cowboy conversion models. I need a lid with some miles on it.”
Spotted sixteen thrift stores last mile. I pull out headed for the hospital trustin’ one’ll manifest on the way, and sure’s shit they’s three in a cluster. Two on the hospital side and another ’cross the road. Park. Windows down, lock Stinky Joe.
In back they’s a wall with baseball caps and knit hats but nothin’ cowboy. Turn around and spot a mannequin wearin’ a hat look ’bout right. I swipe it off his head and the tag say ten dollar. Drop it on mine and if I hadn’t cut off the hair it’d fit.
I buy the hat.
Outside the thrift they’s a newspaper rack for the real estate flyers. Grab one.
Inside the Eldorado I tear and fold a strip of paper. Tuck it inside the headband and now my hat fit. And it’ll adjust for when my hair grow back.
The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6) Page 7
