The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  Using my knife, I peeled the pineapple and arranged chunks and the other food in a metal pan we used as a plate. “They want to take your ATM card to town and get their truck in decent shape.”

  “Preposterous,” Woody exclaimed. “They’d need my pin number.”

  “They want your pin number. They know that.”

  “Well I won’t give it to them. They can take me with them. If we go by daylight, there’ll be no problem. There are other people living around here.”

  “Not near Alpha Konare,” I said. After helping him prop himself up in bed, he began eating. His appetite was good.

  “Damned volcano. You shouldn’t have brought me to this godforsaken place. There were flashes of light during the night, ominous rumblings, evil noises coming from the earth. It was like some sci-fi horror movie. I’m immobile and my nerves are shot.”

  “Perhaps flowers.”

  “What’s this with flowers?” he shot back.

  “There are flowers in the bush. I can pick some for your room.”

  “My room!” Woody started

  I looked around. “Yes, your room. I’ll need a vase.”

  “This is surreal. This isn’t my room. This is a native shanty. There are bugs and foul odors. I have a candle for light and I’m menaced by an active volcano. I’m fed crap. Now you give me some sort of jungle juice. My room, my ass.”

  “We could have left you at the crash site, or arrived a few minutes later,” I reminded. “But flowers would brighten up the place, and the boys won’t move you until they get their truck fixed.”

  “So that’s how it is,” he said grimly. “Blackmail.”

  “Or lack of trust. Put any name to it you like, but I’ll continue to feed you. Although my patience may eventually wear thin. In time, I think you’ll be able to walk out of here.”

  “That could be. If I could get crutches, or a walker.”

  “Whatever. There’s enough food for the day. I’ll be back towards evening.”

  “Why not stay here with me?” He seemed anxious. “We could talk. I can help you. Whatever you want, I can make it come true.”

  I began to feel great sorrow for him, sympathy. After all was said and done, Woody was a human being and we are all sensitive beings at some level. His plight was desperate, akin to prison, yet he was here cheek by jowl with the freest creatures on earth, creatures of the African bush. Animals living as they had for eons, and humans plagued with poverty and disease.

  “If I had a dream,” I told him, “I would share it with you, but I have none.”

  “There are riches, women, the good life. Money can buy quite a lot. You know that.”

  “I’ll share something with you. I met a girl on the train from Dakar, a pretty young girl. We spent several days together. It was a good time, I felt young again. When those things happen, they are gifts.”

  “Money can make things happen.”

  “I get the message. I’ll be back toward evening. We’ll drink jungle juice together.” I departed, beginning to feel guilty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A large quantity of soul searching was going on. Like old Alpha Konare bubbling and steaming away up there in its crater, my brain was volcanic, thoughts welling up, thoughts discarded, new thoughts rising. Telling myself again and again, I must not think about something, I must think something.

  Cane juice was available in that dingy market, along with beer and snacks. So that night the two of us had a high old time. With the jungle juice taking hold of our minds and intellect we stopped worrying whether the stuff would kill us or simply make us go blind. Anyway, cares slipped away and Woody said he had decided to give the boys his ATM pin number, as if he had a choice. He was keenly aware that he was our prisoner, and no doubt he was planning some sordid revenge once he was freed.

  Feeling no pain, I let the soft Mali night take over and collapsed on the second cot, waking early and inventorying the wreckage of the night before. A little jungle juice was left, a few snacks, beer and some good water. Fortunately, I had left the aspirins in Woody’s care and I ate half a banana for my stomach’s sake, then downed a pair of the wonder drug.

  After helping Woody to the outhouse and making certain he had enough for breakfast, I set out, pin number in hand, to search for Tu and Toguna.

  Lecturing the boys on how the ATM worked, I gave Tu the pin number. “Some machines have cameras to take photos of those extracting cash, in this case francs. So if a machine even looks suspicious, wear a cloth on your head and a scarf around your face, so only your eyes show. Remember, Woody may have a change of heart and try to prosecute us.”

  Also, I told them there was a limit of how much cash could be withdrawn in one day, perhaps as low as five thousand West African francs, that they should ask about that, make one transaction tonight and another in the morning, when few people were around.

  “One more item,” I said, wondering how they would take it. “Use what money you get to get the truck in fair condition, then use a few francs to buy a .38 revolver and a box of ammunition.”

  “A gun?” Tu questioned.

  “Yes, it’s part of my plan. I’ll tell you more when you return. I’m hoping you’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon. We’ll meet at my hut.” The two of them looked suspicious. The gun was a wild card. “Will there be any problem in buying the gun?”

  It was Toguna who spoke. “No problem, Andy. Plenty of shops in Mopti, plenty of guns. But a pistol is no good for hunting.”

  “It’s mainly a weapon of self-defense. When you get back with the pistol, I’ll tell you the entire story. You will know my mind in full. I will empty it for you and you can pick at the pieces.”

  Tu chuckled. “I can hardly wait.

  When they were gone, I turned a rasher of thoughts over and over, frying them in my brain. There are laws of gravity and grammar, natural laws, laws of physics cannot be defied. But what we have here is something like a tree falling in the forest. Then for no reason at all, my mind flitted off to the Dakar girl and the question of how she was received when she returned home.

  Then, what was I doing in this wild and wonderful, tragic place? Was my life so boring that I had to pick a place like Timbuktu? I suppose it was and will be. Mind altering drugs might be the answer. They are manufactured now for cats and dogs. With that thought I set off for the scruffy hut that passed for a store to replenish the supply of jungle juice and other necessities.

  The evening passed much as the one before, only with less hilarity. We both anticipated the return of Tu and Toguna, Woody for his freedom, myself for my on-again, off-again plan. Perhaps I would best be served by using the gun on myself. At such an age as mine, with questions and issues mounting, in this exotic land, how sweet to end it all with one pull of the trigger.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The boys returned just before noon. Tu grinned and paraded the new set of rubber on the truck. Toguna handed me a nickel-plated revolver that had seen better days. I shoved a couple of rounds into the cylinder, walked out behind my hut and fired twice into the trunk of a tree. Nodding in approval, I thanked them for their good work.

  Then I brewed tea, and we sat as they told me about their exciting time in Mopti. To be young, to have money, to be in such a town, such sights and sounds, so far removed from their bush life, the wonder of it all!

  After they were talked out, I told them about Woodrow Wilson Harris. But not completely.

  “You are black Africans and I am a white American.” There was no disagreement with that. “In Mopti, or maybe occasionally out here, you have seen white American and European tourists, and because they are tourists it means they have enough money to travel as well as have a good life at home. This might mean a fine house, a car and a television.”

  “We envy them,” Tu said. “That is why we have our truck and that is why it is a blessing that this man Woody fell from the sky with his less lucky companions.”

  “I see your point. It’s a good one. Hundreds
of years ago on an island near Dakar black Africans were imprisoned and sold as slaves to be taken to America and several other places. These captives were gathered, sometimes by Arabs, sometimes by other blacks. They were sold like animals.”

  “That was long ago,” Toguna said. “No more.”

  “Yes, no more. And no more slavery. However slavery does still exist in this world, but that’s another matter. Truth to tell, those blacks sold in America, or their offspring, were freed and many have risen to wealth and honor. They might come to Dakar or other African cities as tourists just as I did.”

  “We have seen that,” Tu said. “Some seek their ancient homes, the homes of their people. To help them is a way for us to make money. But we have never done that.”

  “The fact is that island off Dakar is well known as a slave market, but it was a minor slave market. The bulk of the slaves came from farther south. I suppose I’m getting off message, although my message is broad. What I’m getting at is there is discrimination in America. That is some whites do not like blacks and the reverse is also true. You two speak good English and have learned much from the missionaries, but you may lack vocabulary. If you don’t understand anything I say, please ask.”

  “There are words we don’t know,” Tu said. “But we understand what you are saying.” Toguna nodded in agreement.

  We had finished our tea and the day was quite warm. I was looking forward to a nap in my hammock later in the afternoon. “I have some beer I bought at the small store run by that thief who robs you of what money you have. So let’s have beer.”

  “He is a thief,” Tu agreed smiling, “but a necessary thief. And his daily life is much like ours despite his small wealth.”

  When the beer was opened, I continued my story. “There exist actual organizations in the States that are against black people and others. Against Jews for instance and some recent immigrants. Usually these are made up of very poor rather stupid people.”

  “We have our problems here in Africa,” Tu tossed in.

  “Of course you do. In parts of East Africa, Arabs are killing blacks. They are attempting what is called genocide, to wipe out a race of people. We have nothing like that in the States, but we do have a problem. Now Woody, the man with the broken leg, is a racist and opposes black people and others.”

  “He has not harmed us,” Toguna said. “He has helped us with his bank card.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Because he was forced to. He knew he would be laying up there in that hut forever unless he gave you the card. Here is the problem. Woody is not a stupid man and he is a very rich man, so he can be a very dangerous man. Given his freedom he may try to get even with us for forcing him to give up his card.”

  “And he may not,” Tu said. “He may be very happy to get out of here and further reward us.”

  “That’s good thinking,” I responded. “Good thinking in a perfect world. And our world is not perfect. The problem with Woody and his huge amounts of money is that he spends it on these hate organizations. Lumped together they are called hate groups because they hate other human beings, notably blacks. Such activity in its own way is tearing America apart. Of course we have many other problems.”

  Tu looked me in the eye and said, “You want to kill Woody. That is why you wanted the gun.”

  “Yes, that’s right. It would solve part of the problem, a small part I admit. But I would be doing something good. And in a way you would be standing up for your race.”

  “What do we have to do with this?” Toguna questioned, slightly aroused.

  “Nothing and everything.”

  “We would be helping black Americans,” Tu said. “Why should we do such a thing?”

  “Think of them as Africans. In America I am called a liberal. I think that’s good. My goal would be to see all races work in harmony, for everyone to get along as best they can. Woody works to make sure blacks are downtrodden, and he would like to eliminate Jews and others. His quest is hopeless and simply serves to keep America in a state of turmoil.”

  “And you ask us to join in this crime, the crime of murder that the missionaries have talked and talked against. Growing up we heard ‘Love thy neighbor,’ and ‘Love thy Enemy.’ Now you preach a different gospel.”

  “You should run for office,” I quipped. “Let’s pretend you are me and I am you. You be me and tell me what you think about Woody.”

  Tu thought for a few moments. “You don’t like him. If I am you, I don’t like him.”

  “And if I am you, I ask, why? Why don’t you like him?”

  “I don’t like him because he has a lot of money.” Here he paused and thought some more. “It’s not the money, it’s the way he spends the money.”

  “Do you not like the man?”

  “The man is OK. It’s what he does that I don’t like. He does bad things with his money. He uses it to hurt black Americans. He probably would not like black Africans. When his plane fell he was attempting to fly over our country. Perhaps God has delivered him into our hands. Much as Moses delivered the Hebrew children out of slavery.”

  “You know your Bible,” I said.

  “We were taught from childhood by the missionaries. I liked them, I’m sorry they’re gone.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They grew old, too old, and returned to England. They spoke of a cottage in a small town, somewhere called the Cotswolds.”

  “You have my story. What do you think?”

  “What can we do? You are our friend. You have the gun. We are not really involved.”

  “Unfortunately, you are involved. You used his bankcard and you bought a gun. Those two acts are incriminating. Even if you turned me in, you would still be at risk. So if I carry my plan forward, you are involved. Now you could grab the gun and shoot me, but then you would be shooting the wrong person.”

  The brothers laughed. “What is the idiom?” Tu asked, “You have us stretched over a barrel.”

  “Something like that. Because of the isolation, this could be the perfect crime. Woody simply disappears. And you two would vanish from this area. And here’s how. I figure you would be able to use the bankcard ten more times, the maximum francs for ten days, without arousing suspicion. Then you would have to destroy it, or surely the authorities would run you down.”

  “A lot of money,” Toguna said.

  “If used wisely it would be enough to start a new life with your good truck, perhaps in a small town, miles from where you last used the bank card.”

  “There is another idiom the English taught us,” Tu recalled. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “Is it decided then?”

  Both nodded grimly.

  “I will talk to him tonight and we will take turns shooting him tomorrow. My shot will be first and fatal. Yours will be symbolic, sealing our plan. Then you can guess what we will do with the body.”

  Tu grinned again. “Your plan is long in the making. Of course we will tumble him into old Alpha Konare. No trace will be left behind.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Woody was dozing when I arrived at his hut. I poured us each a good measure of jungle juice and waited until he revived. His first words were, “Are they back?”

  “Yes, they have returned safe and sound. City life mixed with a few francs can be quite hazardous for country boys.”

  “Are they here?” He attempted to look around, but his unset leg was a constant source of pain. He needed a hospital and a good doctor, a bonesetter.

  “They are not here and my news is quite bad.” I had decided to come right to the point. “Even though I’ve learned to like you, Woody, and admire some of your qualities, I’ve decided to kill you.”

  He did not respond instantly, nor did he seem shocked. A bright man, a rather sensitive man, he had known something was in the wind. Finally, he asked, “Why have you made such a drastic and damning decision?”

  “I searched my soul, reviewed my past life. I’ve made many mistakes
and never done anything particularly good. My final decision was to do one good deed, one excellent act, and, of course, do it anonymously.”

  Woody actually chuckled. “I believe the anonymous part. Otherwise you’d be gallows bait. But why me? Why is killing me such a splendid act?”

  That he was taking it so well, calmly chatting, was a great relief. “Of course you already know. It’s because you’re a racist, not just a run of the mill racist, but royalty. That divisive activity is one of the things, only one, I grant you, tearing our country apart.”

  “There are many racists.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Rednecks and so on. Dirt poor whites who blame blacks, Jews and immigrants for their plight, not overly educated. But you’re not only intelligent, you’re fabulously rich. Of course you saw this coming. That’s why you had not one, but two, security men on that airplane.”

  Woody was thoughtful and nodded as if in agreement. We both sipped jungle juice. “You do have it figured out. Can we negotiate?”

  “I’ve gone too far down the road for that. If you get out of here alive, your lawyers would hound me to my grave. A lawyer is a wonderful piece of work, something like a samurai to his master. But his master is money. And once under contract from a fee-bearing client he is totally committed to the cause. Like a pack of howling wolves, or sharks in a feeding frenzy. Morals and ethics fall by the wayside once the game is afoot and the prey in sight.”

  “I’m impressed by your grasp of the situation. But there must be some safeguard, some way I could stop being a racist to save my sorry ass. At the same time reward you and your colleagues for your trouble.”

  “I can think of none, Woody. Much as I would like to. One thing more, I’m not here to gloat. It seemed to me it was only fair, something like a judge delivering a death sentence, you know, may God have mercy on your soul, that bit, to let you prepare yourself for the hereafter.”

  “Should I thank you?”

  “You don’t have to go that far. But consider this. You’ve lived a good life, enjoyed your family and money. Been honored by many, gained the respect of your peers. Why not go now at the height of your powers?”