Cornered!

by James McKimmey

  He held it lightly now, testing that balance. Then he placed it carefully on one of Bob Saywell’s tables just in front of him, looking at the group staring back.

  He smiled. Then his hand leaped out and came back with the gun palmed neatly. It was a heavy gun, but not to Billy. In Billy’s practiced hand, it was light as a plastic toy. He slipped his forefinger through the trigger guard, then suddenly let the weight of the pistol go entirely on the finger. The muzzle tipped around, up, and back, so that the barrel pointed at his own forehead. He jerked his hand slightly, and the gun spun, flashing darkly. He spun it backward, then forward. It snapped neatly into position again, the barrel pointing in the direction of the awed group.

  Billy grinned again. The demonstration had been almost childish, but it had served its purpose. One thing was apparent: Billy was one with the gun, and nobody was going to forget that.

  “You see how it is?” he said. “One good arm, one good hand, that’s all I need. So everybody just stay calm now and don’t say anything and don’t do anything, huh? Just you, fat boy. You get on the telephone and get a doctor over here. And that’s all you do, see? Or I’ll bust that balloon gut you got and see what pours out. You savvy that, fat boy?”

  Bob Saywell savvied instantly. He hurtled back through the store to the telephone on the wall.

  “Just dial and say it’s an emergency and tell him to get over here and hang up!” Billy snapped from the other end of the room.

  Bob Saywell turned, staring at Billy with helpless panic. “Can’t dial. No dial. You got to crank and ask Marie!”

  Billy frowned in momentary puzzlement, then understood. “All right then. Crank, jelly roll, and ask Marie!”

  Bob Saywell cranked. His voice came out in a high tremolo in answer to Marie’s voice at the switchboard in the telephone office three blocks away. “Doc Stewart’s office, Marie!”

  He waited for what seemed an incredible time, sweat oozing on his forehead. Marie rang the long and a long, over and over. There was no answer.

  “It’s pretty early,” Marie said. “I’ll try his house, Bob.”

  Bob Saywell nodded dumbly.

  A short and a long this time. Repeated once. Then Doctor Hugh Stewart answered.

  “Me, Doc!” Bob Saywell quivered. “Bob Saywell! Got an emergency over here at the store. You got to get over here!” He put the receiver back on the hook and turned around, looking at Billy Quirter in wild pleading, asking with frightened eyes if he’d done exactly the right thing.

  “Okay, jelly roll,” Billy Quirter said. His sharp dark eyes had examined Bob Saywell thoroughly. He was satisfied. Bob Saywell was no threat. Billy relaxed just a little, feeling the prickling of a peculiar new kind of power he’d never felt before. He’d spent most of his days in the shadow of Tony, doing his work with no recognition, Tony always being the front man, always taking the spotlight. This was different. It was all right. It even seemed to help the burning pain of his arm.

  Billy’s eyes brushed over the others, trying to analyze them. The preacher. The preacher’s fat wife. The guy from the Chrysler. The guy’s broad. Billy’s eyes stopped on Gloria. She was everything Billy had always imagined to be desirable; she closely resembled the visions he’d seen on the screens of dark movie houses where he’d spent so much of his lonely time. Billy smiled faintly. He jerked his head a little toward the kitchen and said:

  “Fat boy, you get back there and lock that back door if it ain’t already, huh? Then get some eggs on. Make yourself useful. I’ll tell you what. Breakfast for everyone! How’s that? We’re all going to have breakfast!”

  Billy grinned as Bob Saywell stumbled over himself to do what Billy had ordered.

  Billy looked at Gloria. “I like him. He’s eager. He likes to please. How about you, sweetheart?”

  Gloria looked at him with cold calm.

  Billy shrugged, then motioned his gun at Reverend Andrews and Lottie. “Sit down at a table, Reverend. Breakfast’s coming up.”

  “May God have mercy on you,” Reverend Andrews breathed, his hand finding Lottie’s.

  “That’s right,” Billy said. “May God have mercy on us all. Especially anyone who gets funny, huh? Now you and your wife sit down, Reverend!” The smile went, the voice hardened.

  Reverend Andrews guided Lottie to one of the tables where they sat down. Lottie kept staring unbelievingly at Billy, but she kept her chin up firmly.

  Billy rounded the counter and came up the back side. Bob Saywell had a high stool he kept there to sit on when he conversed with customers over the counter. Billy sat down on that, overlooking the store. Bob Saywell nervously broke eggs onto a hot grill at the rear of the store.

  Billy looked at Sam Dickens. “What’s your name, Jack?”

  “Dickens.”

  “Dickens what?”

  “Sam Dickens.”

  “Oh. I thought it was Dickens something. I like that—Dickens. It’s the name of a book, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sam Dickens said.

  “Well, who cares? Do you care, Dickens?”

  “No. I don’t care.”

  “That’s the stuff,” Billy grinned. “I like you. You look smart to me. Is this your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “See? Now that’s one of the reasons I know you’re smart, Dickens. You got to be smart to have a wife looks like this.”

  Sam Dickens said nothing. Gloria looked at Sam, then back at Billy Quirter.

  “Sam Dickens, huh? What’s her name, Sam?” Billy smiled wickedly at Gloria. “Mine’s Billy, sweetheart.”

  “What’s the point?” Sam Dickens finally said. “What are you after anyway?”

  “Now I said you were smart. I meant that, Sam. Now a smart man in a case like this keeps his mouth shut from asking what he’s not supposed to. I mean, he just answers what he’s asked. Now you’re a smart man, Sam. See, I can tell it takes a smart man to own a car like you got outside and a wife like this here one. And that mink coat she’s wearing, you don’t afford that from being dumb, huh, Sam? Now I didn’t ask you to ask me what the point was or what I was after. That’s my business. I asked you to tell me what Mrs. Dickens’s name is.”

  Gloria looked at Sam Dickens, anger flaring in her eyes. Then she said to Billy Quirter, “The name’s Mrs. Dickens. I’m his wife. His name is Dickens. I’m Mrs. Dickens. Okay?”

  “Gloria, listen,” Sam Dickens pleaded. “He means business. Isn’t that obvious? That’s a gun in his hand.”

  But Billy suddenly laughed. “That’s all right, Sam. I like your wife. I really do. Lots of pepper, huh?”

  Sam Dickens had his hands on the counter. He opened and closed them without answering.

  Gloria’s mouth tightened. She looked at her husband, then away.

  “Now this gun in my hand,” Billy said. “Are you scared of it, Dickens?”

  Sam would not lift his head.

  Billy nodded. “He is, Gloria. Gloria—I like that name.”

  “That’s grand.”

  Again Billy laughed. “You kill me, Gloria. Why don’t you come around the counter and pour us all some coffee?”

  “Why don’t you climb a rope?”

  Billy’s face suddenly froze, the dark eyes thinned a little.

  Sam Dickens said, “For God’s sake, Glory! Don’t—”

  “Shut up!” Billy snapped. He stared grimly at Gloria. “Now I mean it, sister. I told you to do something. I said come around here and pour us some coffee. Did you hear me?”

  Gloria met his stare steadily. “Go to hell.”

  Sam Dickens opened and closed his mouth. Suddenly Billy’s face wreathed into the broadest smile he’d yet demonstrated. “No kidding! What a broad, huh? I mean it! Beautiful and sheer guts!”

  Gloria said, “Why don’t you pour the coffee, smart boy? I could use some.”

  Billy shook his head in pure and obvious admiration. “Smart, Dickens. Real smart to grab a dame like this. How’d you do it? Well, never mind.
I’ll tell you what. You pour the coffee, Dickens. Now you ain’t going to tell me to climb a rope, are you?” Billy smiled jovially at Sam Dickens. “Come on! Make like a bus boy, huh?”

  Sam Dickens sat motionless for a second. Then he stood up and walked slowly around the right side of the counter to the glass coffee containers. He got cups from the shelves and poured five cups.

  “Distribute,” Billy grinned.

  Sam Dickens carried two cups to the table where Reverend Andrews and Lottie sat. He came back and carried two cups to the counter for Gloria and Billy. Then, as if sensing that Billy would demand it (in his mind was the memory of a western he’d produced in which the bad man said to the good man, “Ain’t you going to drink with me, pardner?” he took the final cup for himself.

  “Fine, Dickens,” Billy said when Sam had reseated himself. “Now that’s real fine. He did that good, didn’t he, Gloria?”

  Gloria didn’t answer.

  Billy grinned, his enjoyment of this outweighing the pain of his arm. “What do you do for a living, Dickens?”

  “Motion pictures,” Sam Dickens said quietly. “I’m a producer.”

  “No kidding,” Billy said. “The movies, huh? Now I could give you some real material, Dickens. Not that slop you put out. What the hell are you doing in this little dump anyway?”

  At that Reverend Andrews stood up, started to speak, found a fuzziness in his throat, cleared it, and finally said, “I’ll thank you not to swear in here.”

  Billy looked at him in utter astonishment.

  Gloria half turned, looking at the reverend. Sam Dickens also looked back.

  “I might remind you,” Reverend Andrews went on doggedly, “I am a clergyman.”

  Billy sat there for a moment, then carefully got off his stool and walked along behind the counter until he was even with Reverend Andrews. The movement jolted pain through his arm, but he ignored that. He stood there, one arm limp, the other crooked up, carrying the gun in his right hand so that it half pointed at the reverend. “Yeah,” he said, eyes thinning. “Yeah, you’re a clergyman. You told me in that car, remember? You’re a preacher. So what, huh? That makes you God, maybe? You yak about it so much maybe that’s what you think?”

  “I think nothing of the sort. I am merely of the Good Lord’s calling—”

  “The Good Lord’s calling!” Billy said meanly. “He called you, did He? When did the call come in? Long distance, straight from Heaven? Person to person, maybe? You’re a nut is what you are! How about that, Reverend? You hear voices, huh?” Suddenly Billy’s tense look disappeared. “I’ll tell you something.” He smiled now, delighted with his train of thought. “I hear voices too.” He walked back to the stool and reseated himself, looking at the reverend all the while. “All the time! Only my calls come in from the other direction. Direct. Person to person. Guess from where?”

  Reverend Andrews forced himself to stand there despite the paleness of his face. But he was silent.

  “Sure,” Billy said happily. “A direct line to down under. Straight from the Devil himself, Reverend. Do you believe that?”

  Reverend Andrews was silent for a moment, then very quietly, he said, “Yes, I do.”

  Billy blinked, his eyes shifting just in time to see the faintest quirking at the corners of Sam Dickens’s mouth.

  Swiftly Billy’s gun dropped in his lap, and his right hand lashed out, the flat of it cracking against Sam Dickens’s cheek. The movement was fast as lightning, and the blow had a surprising impact. It half turned Sam Dickens on his stool.

  “Funny?” Billy snapped to the surprised Sam Dickens. “You think something’s funny, Dickens?”

  Sam Dickens, his cheek flaming red where Billy’s hand had struck it, was silent for a moment. He shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

  “Good.” Billy’s gun was back in his hand now. “That’s good. I thought you thought something was funny. I’ll let you know when something’s funny. All right, Dickens?”

  Sam Dickens nodded faintly.

  Billy’s tense look disappeared entirely. “Now sit up and drink your coffee.” He looked at Reverend Andrews still standing determinedly by the table. “You sit down, Reverend. I didn’t think you were a trouble-maker. Is that what preachers are for? To be trouble-makers? You just caused me to bust old Sam here in the face. What’s your Boss going to think of that? You better sit down, Reverend. You don’t want to be a trouble-maker, do you?”

  Reverend Andrews licked his lips and slowly sat down.

  Gloria Dickens, startled by the slap, but once again poised, said, “Why don’t you take a swing at me? Just for good measure.”

  Billy grinned. “I’m afraid you might swing back, honey. Besides I wouldn’t want to hurt those pretty features of yours. You’re a doll, do you know that?”

  “No kidding? I’d always thought I was real ugly.”

  “Honey, you kill me.”

  “Maybe I would if I had a chance.”

  “You ain’t going to get a chance. Old Sam here ain’t going to help you get it anyway, is he, Gloria?”

  “No,” Gloria said, glancing angrily at Sam, “I guess he’s not.”

  “Then we’re all happy,” Billy said, looking toward the rear. “Where’s the breakfast, jelly roll?”

  “Right away, right away!” Bob Saywell chattered. A moment later he scurried up with a large plate of eggs and bacon. He placed it obsequiously in front of Billy, then backed up and looked hopefully at the gunman, giving the impression of wringing his hands without actually doing it.

  Billy placed his gun in his lap again and started eating ravenously. He paused suddenly, looking sideways at Bob Saywell, fork poised in air.

  “Well, feed the rest of the animals, chunky. We’re all at the trough this morning!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Bob Saywell had never given such service. He served the entire room in unbelievable time, then stood panting, waiting for Billy’s next desire.

  Billy motioned with his gun. “What’s the matter with that doc?”

  “Ought to be here any minute! Yes, sir! You can count on Doc. A good man! The best, Doc Stewart!”

  “I don’t care what his goddam name is,” Billy said, carefully looking over the counter at Reverend Andrews. “I just want to know where he is.” Reverend Andrews flushed, but he did not get up.

  Bob Saywell, in desperate but futile eagerness to produce Dr. Hugh Stewart, looked as though he might have to run to the back of the store to the small lavatory.

  Hugh Stewart solved Bob Saywell’s dilemma at that moment by rapping on the front door.

  Billy’s fork clattered onto his plate. His gun was again in his hand. He looked at a quivering Bob Saywell.

  “Now, listen, jelly roll. This is closed shop today, you hear? I mean to everybody, but that doc. Now you go over and look past that shade. If it’s the doc, let him in. And he’d better come in alone, or I’ll put a hole right through your pink little head, see? I mean that like I never meant anything in my life, chubby. Now, go!”

  Bob Saywell went, around the counter, scooting to the door. He peered out, then unlocked the door. Dr. Hugh Stewart stepped inside.

  “Now shut the door and lock it!” Billy snapped from behind the counter.

  Bob Saywell did just that. Hugh Stewart stared in surprise, first at Billy Quirter and the gun in his hand, then at the faces of the others, sitting silently, staring back at him.

  Billy Quirter grinned. “Welcome to the party, Doc. It’s the left arm—busted. I’m real glad you could make it. Come on over here and start working, huh? Jelly roll there’ll get you some breakfast. Hop to it, fatty. How do you like your eggs, Doc? Sunny side up or over one time?”

  chapter twelve

  The storm was wearing thin with the brightening of morning. Snow had drifted like nicely placed dollops of whipped cream. Traffic had been eased to a thin trickle all around, and would not return to any degree of normalcy until the snow plows had cut through; there was
one beginning its slow push from Graintown to Arrow Junction right now.

  Still, with a half-ton truck and chains, it was possible to get around fairly easily; and Ted Burley, when he lurched from Greta Blummer’s farmhouse did not think about whether or not he could make the drive back to his own farm without trouble. He simply ground the starter until the engine caught and turned over, the muscles of his jaw standing rigid along his cheeks.

  Deep in his stomach Ted Burley felt a nauseous distress. For one thing he was suffering a crushing hangover. The night previous he’d drunk three-quarters of a bottle of whisky all by himself, and Ted Burley did not normally drink. For another thing, he had, in his own opinion, just degraded himself to the bottom of the pit by spending the night with Greta Blummer. Anybody in or around Arrow Junction knew well enough what Greta was.

  Yet he’d kept up that drinking—taking one final swig from the bottle as he’d driven the pickup into the drive of her farm. Then he’d lurched on to the house and grabbed Greta, while she giggled and kept asking him what in the world he was doing. She’d known exactly what he was doing and was happy as hell over it.

  In the cab now, shuddering as he drove away from that house, Ted Burley remembered where he’d put that bottle of whisky; it was just behind him on the ledge behind the seat.

  He got it and took another drink, blinking as the whisky seared down to his empty stomach. He’d tripped the emotional lever again, done it by imagining how it was with Ann and Dr. Hugh Stewart, an image that had built up the previous late afternoon and finally suffused him completely, until he’d vented his rage and building desire on the soft flesh of Greta Blummer.

  “Damned dirty whore!” Ted Burley repeated of his wife. He hunched behind the wheel, drunkenness resuming instantly with the first drink. He propped the bottle beside him, driving with instinctive accuracy along the snowy road. “I’ll show her when I get home,” he muttered. “I’ll show her!”

  But his own farmhouse on the west edge of Arrow Junction was still empty. Ann Burley had remained in the office of Dr. Hugh Stewart. She had finally slept that night. Now, early this morning, she was awake and thinking. “You can’t keep on running,” Hugh Stewart had told her. “You’ve got to stop sometime…”