Babychain Blues

by Tony Masero

  ‘You done yet?’ Cole asked through the truck’s open window.

  ‘Half an hour,’ she said, even in the darkness of the car park he could see that inviting twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Like a ride to that watering hole of yours?’

  ‘I have my own car,’ she said, one hand over the window frame, the fingers resting there. ‘Why don’t you wait up and follow me?’

  ‘I know the place. I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Like to take the lead, huh? You always the one to ride point, Mister Junger?’

  He knew then that she was ex-military and that she recognized the same in him.

  ‘Something like that and it’s Cole, by the way.’

  She nodded and backed away as he turned the ignition.

  Behind her he saw the three Indians leaving through the main entrance, their lumbering forms lit by the bright emergency signage above.

  Martha Jane watched him back out from his space, then she turned and walked back inside.

  Cole was amused. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d been picked up and then in a hospital emergency room of all places. He just hoped the surroundings didn’t bode ill and presage some bad things to come.

  It was a long L-shaped bar with old-fashioned turned and paneled wood along the counter, out of the way and quiet now that the business people from the town center had all gone home. Dimly lit with rows of glasses on shelves over the bar and a bartender who had to be interrupted from the evening paper he was reading.

  Cole took a bar stool separate from the other lone drinkers and ordered up a beer then sat and listened to a tinny rendition of Elton John singing ‘Candle in the Wind’ over the in-house music system. They had moved up the hit parade and were on to Shania Twaine and ‘You’re Still the One,’ by the time she arrived.

  A knee-length overcoat covered her white nurse’s uniform but she still wore her white shoes and stockings. He could see she had taken time to apply makeup. Martha Jane eased herself onto the stool next to him and as the bar lighting hit her Cole realized he liked what he saw. Fresh perfume wafted from her and overlaid the antiseptic memory of the hospital.

  ‘Evening Martha Jane,’ greeted the bartender, obviously knowing the nurse well. ‘The usual?’

  ‘Hi, Barnaby, how you doing?’ she said, nodding acceptance.

  He moved off to mix her drink and she turned to Cole. ‘You found it okay then?’

  ‘I did,’ he said, raising his glass.

  ‘Your girl’s going to be okay.’

  ‘Good to hear.’

  ‘Might be a little concussion there but she’ll be alright. May be some trouble with that eye though, they’re going to check it out. Sweet little thing, ain’t she?’ Martha tilted her head sympathetically and nodded in thanks as the barman brought her drink over. ‘See so many of those poor kids brought in like that. Don’t know what’s getting into men these days….’ She sighed, and then apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply….’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘You’re right there’s too much of it. Redneck peckerwoods picking on the weak. I guess its easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Beating up on little women? I guess so, if that’s how you get your kicks.’

  ‘Tell me about those Indians.’

  She cocked her head on one side and studied him speculatively for a while, ‘So it was you.’

  ‘You mean Demus Barnes? Boy had it coming to him.’

  ‘So I see. What were you Cole, Special Forces, Black Ops, something like that?’

  Cole compressed his lips and looked away into the mirrors opposite, a long row of them situated at the back of the bar.

  ‘I think maybe you served your time too,’ he said.

  Martha looked into her glass and took a sip, then followed his glance into the mirrors ‘I was young and foolish enough to think I could make a difference,’ she said with a wry twist to her lips.

  ‘Weren’t we all?’

  They drank some and talked quietly, feeling comfortable with each other and Cole ordered them a couple more drinks.

  ‘You married?’ Cole asked.

  She nodded confirmation, watching him over the edge of her glass with a devilish little sparkle.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Cole allowed.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I’m not one to kick in another man’s stall,’ he confessed.

  ‘You like the blues too. I recognize those lyrics, who was it sung that? And its okay, we’re separated now.’

  ‘Can’t remember now, Otis Spann, I think. And that’s good to hear. How long?’

  ‘Old Bill and I broke up a year ago, we just haven’t gotten around to making it final yet.’

  ‘In that case maybe you and me should have a meal together sometime.’

  ‘You mean like a regular date?’

  ‘I mean like a regular date,’ he laughed.

  ‘Lord, Cole, it’s been a long while, you’re making me feel like a teenager again.’

  ‘We could always skip the date part, if you like. Neither of us is getting any younger.’

  ‘Man, are you trying to proposition me over a single drink?’

  ‘I’m trying my damned hardest.’

  She laughed out loud, a happy bright sound that brought the bartender’s head up from his newspaper.

  She was smiling, one eyebrow quirked as she studied him.

  ‘You got a shower?’ she asked. ‘I need a shower. These pesky uniforms they issue us with are nylon and its hot as hell in that hospital.’

  ‘I’m a plumber, aren’t I?’

  ‘Okay, lead on plumbing man. I haven’t had my pipes checked in a coon’s age.’

  Her head rested on his bare chest and he held her encompassed in his arm.

  Cole watched the lights of the occasional car outside slide across the ceiling of his room in long bars. He felt contentment. Not just for the sex, which had been good enough, no, it was the company. They were compatible, it was obvious. No cautious or coy behavior just a genuine desire to get on with it and enjoy the moment.

  ‘That was nice,’ she murmured.

  ‘I think so too,’ he agreed.

  The pair of them had not had a sexual partner for a long while and the first attempt had been fast and furious. Clothes torn off and thrown aside without a second thought, a tumble into the bedroom quicker that an athlete running an Olympic mile. But later, after the first gasping climax was over they had tried again, slower this time and with some consideration. Martha’s low moans had roused a long forgotten demon in Cole and he had risen to the occasion with a passion that had surprised even him.

  ‘Can I take that shower now?’ she asked, easing herself away from his arm and sitting up.

  He watched a passing headlight sear across her pendulous breasts, the brightness shining on her smooth skin.

  ‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘I guess we forgot all about that.’

  Her figure was still good. Narrow-waisted and wide hipped, with long legs and a swimmers broad shoulders. Cole watched her walk across to the bathroom.

  ‘Like what you see?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘That I do,’ he agreed.

  ‘Maybe you’ll ask me back for more then.’

  ‘That I will,’ he said with confidence.

  After she closed the door, he stretched his arms wide and savored the scent of a woman’s perfume on his pillow. He could hear the shower running and decided to go get them both a drink of ice water. Slipping from the bed and wrapping a sheet around his waist Cole went out onto the landing.

  It was a two-story house built in the eighties. A simple affair and surrounded on the plot by other small homes that housed mostly single folks and elderly couples. A quiet neighborhood in a part of Rivers Bend that was on the outskirts of the small town. Beyond his back yard stretched open fields, most of them farmed and he considered he had done a good deal when he bought the place.

  The larger town of Baxter, nine miles
distant was the county center with Rivers Bend as its suburb and home for many of the workers occupied in Baxter’s offices and factories.

  He left the lights off and went down the stairs to the open-plan living room and across to the kitchenette in the darkness and opened the refrigerator to take out a chilled jug of water.

  He felt the weight of their presence even before they spoke.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ said the voice. He recognized the tones and turned to see the lumpen shapes outlined by the light from the window.

  Still holding the jug in his hand, Cole pushed the fridge door shut and the room was enclosed in darkness again. He knew enough not to allow the glare to blind his retina, Cole needed to see into the shadows and know what was facing him.

  ‘They let you out then, Demus,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be in that hospital a while longer.’

  ‘I let myself out, no thanks to you.’

  ‘I see you’ve brought company,’ observed Cole as other shapes moved in the shadows.

  ‘Yeah, asshole. This time I ain’t alone.’

  Demus hopped forward into the night-sky glow from the window behind and Cole could see he was using a hospital issued crutch to help him.

  ‘You others the Indian boys?’ Cole asked, holding his voice on an even keel. His heart was beating fast and he could feel the adrenalin surging through his bloodstream and his muscles tensing in response. Fear or flight they called it and right now Cole wasn’t sure which of those two he felt the strongest.

  ‘Oh, I remember you,’ said Joey Loon. ‘You was there in the hospital. Right?’

  Cole’s heart sunk as he saw the light gleam and reflect from the polished sheen of a baseball bat as it was patted into an open palm a time or two.

  ‘It takes four of you does it, Demus?’

  ‘You should care, it don’t matter how many….’

  Cole threw the jug of water at the silhouette before him. Demus spluttered and roared a curse over the sound of breaking glass.

  The first blow caught Cole up high on his left shoulder, it was a solid smack and hurt like hell. He staggered back against the fridge behind and doubled over as he was prodded hard in the stomach.

  ‘You like them apples, plumber,’ growled Joey Loon.

  Cole reached out to grab the offending stick but it was snatched away and swung up to connect with the side of his head. Cole saw stars and blacked out for a moment. He found himself crumbled under the fridge door and heard a series of whooping going on above him.

  ‘Let me, let me,’ he heard as a boot thudded into body. A fist cracked against his jaw and Cole tasted blood. His head was ringing and the blows were becoming indistinct as they followed one after the other.

  ‘Give me the stick,’ begged Demus. ‘I want to beat his shit brains out.’

  ‘No,’ said Joey. ‘We don’t want him dead, just not walking. You can crack his leg, just like he done to you. Bo, you and Teddy hold him down, we’ll crack his kneecap open. Won’t be playing no basketball after this, plumber.’

  The pistol shot was deafening in the enclosed area.

  ‘Next one goes in your brain,’ Cole heard Martha shout.

  The lights flicked on and they all turned to look at the naked figure of Martha, still dripping from the shower and holding a pistol in both hands. Her aim was steady and moved slightly from left to right covering them all.

  ‘Whoa!’ called Joey. ‘Steady with that firearm, lady.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ snapped Martha. ‘I’m proficient with this weapon, the military saw to that. Any of you bastards move and I will nail you where you stand and that’s a certainty.’

  They all believed her and no one made a move.

  ‘Drop the bat,’ she ordered. ‘You alright Cole? Can you get out of there?’

  Cole rolled onto his side and tried to get onto all fours. He made it eventually and crouched there, panting and dizzy with muffled buzzing filling his head.

  ‘Come over here, Cole,’ said Martha, standing spread legged and crouched in a shooter’s position on the landing.

  ‘Jesus Christ, lady,’ growled Joey admiringly. ‘You are something else. If we’d known you were here we’d have come earlier. Look at those jugs, will you, boys?’

  Her next shot whistled close to Joey’s ear and crashed into some pans on the drainer.

  ‘One more word,’ she warned.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ cried Joey, ducking with his hands held up in the air.

  From his all-fours position, Cole took the opportunity to reach out and pick up the metal bat. It was a slender-gripped Stix bat in night-dark aluminum and Cole brought it up fast like a batter hitting a home run. It took Joey Loon deep in the crutch between his parted legs and he leapt about a foot in the air before collapsing in a fetal heap on the floor.

  Cole staggered to his feet and the other men backed away from him as he circled unsteadily, weaving dangerously before him.

  ‘How’d you like them apples?’ he spat at Joey Loon from between gritted teeth with the iron taste of blood in his mouth. Joey, who was in another place, lay gasping silently like a hooked fish with both hands couched over his battered parts.

  ‘Come out the way, Cole,’ called Martha in a steady voice.

  Cole heaved a sigh and, stepping over the squirming Joey, was en-route to her as the first of the sirens sounded in the street outside.

  ‘You call them?’ Cole asked her as he mounted the staircase.

  ‘From the phone by the bed.’

  ‘Good work, Martha. Give me the gun; I’ll watch them whilst you get some clothes on. Police might have a collective nightmare seeing us both buck naked and waving a pistol at a parcel of Indians.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘You city boys, you have no idea really, have you?’

  Gil Gurns curled his lip and scratched at the tattoo on his shaved head. He sat on the lower bunk in the cell and, scratching over, he leaned his bulk forward, elbows resting on his knees. He wore cut-off shorts and a singlet and the muscles bulged beneath the thin cotton, stretching it to bursting. The clothes were a size too small but Gil knew that it was all just advertising. Walla Walla was no picnic farm. It was a hellhole and a man had to display his capabilities for all to see if he was to survive.

  ‘What’s to know?’ his companion asked from the opposite bunk. ‘You have a hunting rifle with a good scope. Take a pot from five hundred yards and bang; you have a five-point deer to your credit. Easy.’

  ‘Man in the wilderness,’ Gil said with cynical dismissiveness. ‘Can see you’ve never stuck your hands inside a dead animal and pulled its guts out.’

  The man he argued with was another lifer called Buck Newton, a brawny fellow with a bald top but a ring of stringy white hair that flowed down over his neck. ‘Sure I have.’

  ‘What? No more than a rabbit, I bet.’

  ‘So? A rabbit’s a dead critter, ain’t it?’

  ‘Try an eight hundred pound moose sometime. Hot and steaming from the kill. Pull out the slop from inside that and you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  Outside the ranked row of barred cells on the lower level of the close-custody section of Echo Unit, prisoners sat at simple lightweight aluminum tables and read or played cards and chess in the cell recreation hall. A central staircase led up to a second row above and a few inmates leaned over the rail on the parapet up there and chatted together whilst guards patrolled behind them. It was noisy in the hall with the clatter of metal doors opening and closing. A loudspeaker issued indistinct instructions and the raised level of conversation outside invaded the cell and made talking at normal level difficult.

  ‘Me and Randy did that once in the cold country along the border. You remember that Randy?’ Gil turned to the dumb shape of Randy Goldstein, his one-time partner who sat slumped on the floor up against the back wall of the cell.

  Randy had not fared as well as Gil since they had arrived in ‘The Walls’. Rape and abduction for sexual purposes were co
mmon practice in the prison and gangs prowled the units always on the lookout for the vulnerable. That and the drug trade were the main driving forces amongst the inmates.

  When they had first been incarcerated, Gil had done his best to protect his friend but it had proved a fulltime job defending himself and Randy had been cast adrift. Once the White Supremacists inside the prison had discovered that Randy was a Jew he became an object of lower order and fair game for them. Randy was very soon brutalized and forced to serve as a punk prostitute for the gang.

  There was no defense or security within the jail, many of the guards worked for the prisoners rather than the Department of Corrections and the drug culture was rife alongside violence and a divisive gang rule that ran on the lines of creed or ethnic origin. If an inmate did not belong to a group he was an easy prey. Randy was bought and sold on through the prison system until Gil had found himself in a strong enough position to rescue his old friend. He kept him now, close by in his cell but Randy was a beaten shell of a man and rarely responded to anything but a regular supply of heroin.

  Gaunt and unresponsive, the hunched figure of Randy sat slumped, deep sunken eyes fixed on the floor between his feet and saying nothing. Gil gave him a passing glance but ignored his sullen friend and turned again to his discussion on the finer philosophical points of hunting, as in being a necessity against a sport.

  Across the years Randy had become a duty for Gil, as a man might care for an ageing parent. It was also a tenuous connection with his past. He kept the spent figure of Randy nearby as a memento to the men they had been when they had both worn buckskin and roamed the hills free and clear, chased girls and followed the open air on the hippy trail. Inside the solid stonewalls of the prison that they called ‘Concrete Mama’ it was Gil’s last remaining connection with that lost freedom.

  The bitterness that had imbued him at their innocent incarceration for a crime they had not committed had left long ago and all that remained for Gil was a desire to stay alive and on top of the heap of desperate characters that filled his life.