A World of Thieves

by James Carlos Blake

  “See him?” Russell said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “No.”

  “Look at the two cons closest to the near guard.”

  I sighted in on the guard, then the convicts a few yards from him. They were loading rocks by hand into a wheelbarrow. Now one of them started away with a barrowload and the other looked our way and for a minute I wasn’t sure, and then I was.

  “Got him,” I said.

  “Like he knew we were coming today,” Russell said.

  “The guard’s looking over,” I said.

  “Wondering who the hell we are,” Russell said. “Let’s get on down there. Off with the hat, girl.”

  Belle took off her hat and shook her hair out, and I put the roadster in gear and got us moving again. When we got down there she would turn on the smile. We figured the sight of a woman in our bunch would ease their wariness. Except for that advantage, Russell figured to do it just like he had at Sugarland. He would call out to the guard that we were looking for the Burchard Oil drill site but had obviously taken a wrong turn, and could he give us directions. When the guard got close to the car he’d put a gun in his face and I’d jump out and relieve him of the shotgun and put it to his head and he’d tell the other two guards to come on over to us with their hands up and empty. Russell would cover them from the car and Buck would grab up their weapons while I disabled the truck and Belle got in the rumble seat with Russell. Then Buck and I would hop in the car and I’d wheel it around and barrel us out of there.

  The night before, after Russell had gone over the plan with us, Belle had whispered to me in bed, “Will it really be that simple, one-two-three?” I said the plan had worked well for them once before and left it at that. I could feel her wanting to say something else but she didn’t. For a minute I felt like some kind of liar for not admitting my doubts to her—then told myself there was no reason to think the thing wouldn’t go as well this time.

  But of course you never know. Even from the crest of the sand hill, parts of the trail between us and the work site had been hidden from view behind other mounds. We were within forty yards of the site when we came around a rise and saw a pair of large rocks that had been placed in the trail to block it. They were too big for the car to clear, and if we tried driving around them we’d get stuck in the sand for sure. And the trail was too narrow to turn the car around on it.

  “Fuck a duck,” Russell said. “The inside guy didn’t say anything about this.” His right hand was down out of sight and I knew he had the revolver in it.

  The near guard came out to the trail and started toward us, the butt of his shotgun braced on his hip. The other guard was coming at a brisk stride from the far side of the site. Prisoners were looking our way even as they went on wielding their tools.

  “What do we do?” Belle said.

  Buck decided it. He grabbed a big rock and scurried up behind the guard, his arm cocked to brain him. The guy must’ve heard him coming—he spun around and halfway ducked and took the blow on the shoulder. They started grappling for the shotgun.

  “Help him out!” Russell shouted, bringing up the long-barreled .38 and bracing his shooting arm on the front seat. I jumped out and ran toward them, slipping the .380 out of my pants.

  The other guard was coming on the run. I heard men shouting in the distance and the pop…pop…pop…pop of Russell’s .38 behind me and the running guard went down and his hat rolled off. He rose to all fours and Russell’s revolver popped twice more and the guard’s head jerked and he fell over.

  I was almost to them when Buck wrested the shotgun from the guard and hooked him on the side of the head with the stock, staggering him backward. Belle’s pistol popped behind me and the guard grabbed at his side. Then Buck shot him from a span of six feet and he lofted rearward, arms and legs flung wide and portions of his midsection spraying red.

  Buck whirled toward me and hollered, “Let’s go get a beer, kid!” He was grinning like a lunatic and I was astonished to hear myself laugh.

  Belle was between us and the car, the .38 up and ready. We ran toward her and Buck yelled, “Move that pretty ass!”

  She turned and ran, with me on her heels and Buck right behind me.

  Then a rifleshot sounded—and Russell hollered, “Nooo!”

  I turned and saw Buck sprawled facedown…the back of his head bright red…the ground before him smeared with what must’ve been his brains.

  The rifle cracked again and Belle cried out.

  She was sitting, clutching her bloody arm, her pistol in the dirt.

  “Buck!” Russell shouted. “Get Buck, goddammit!”

  I stuck the .380 in my pants and ran to her and scooped her up and lumbered to the car, hearing another rifleshot and the tick of a sudden hole in the windshield.

  “Damn you, God damn you!” Russell hollered. He was trying to get out of the rumble seat, hampered by his bad leg. I heaved Belle into the car and slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s side, shouting for Russell to get down—just as the rifle fired again and he jerked and grunted and fell back in the seat.

  I rammed the gearshift into reverse and twisted around to see behind me and floored the accelerator. The roadster went tearing backward over the narrow trail, fishtailing and raising a plume of rock dust, the motor whining so high I couldn’t hear anything else. I drove in reverse all the way back to the highway and then wheeled out onto it backward and barely missed getting clobbered by an oil carrier that swerved past with a long angry blare of its horn.

  I ground the gears with every shift and sped about a mile down the highway and then pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped.

  The sun was low and deeply orange and the dust we’d raised was red. I was pouring sweat. My tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  Belle was hunkered against the door, holding to her wound, her eyes huge on me. Russell groaned. I hadn’t known if he was dead or alive. I put the gearshift in neutral and squirmed around up on my knees to see how he was doing.

  He was slumped down low and looking at me and holding the .38 at his hip, cocked and pointed at my face. The right side of his shirt was sopped with blood.

  “You left him,” he said. His voice was wet.

  “He was dead,” I said.

  “As dead as last time? He’s your partner, Sonny, you bastard! He’s your blood!”

  “Point that somewhere else, man.”

  Belle sat up and said, “He is dead, I saw him. His head was all—”

  “Nobody’s asking you, you—”

  In the instant he shifted his eyes to her I grabbed his gun and pushed it away, the hammer snapping on an empty chamber, and arched up and drilled him with a straight right that took his eyes out of focus. Then gave him another shot, right under the ear, and this one put his lights out.

  Another oil truck coming. I opened a road map and spread it over his chest to hide the blood and pulled his hatbrim over his eyes, then slid down behind the wheel and put his pistol under the seat. The truck went clattering by.

  I got out the flask and took a pull, then offered it to Belle, but she shook her head. “How bad are you?” I said.

  “Not too, I don’t think. It hurts.” She cut a look toward the rumble seat. “Jesus, Sonny. Is he gone crazy?”

  “Let’s see,” I said, leaning for a better look at her wound.

  She took her hand away. The bullet had cut through the flesh of her inner arm just above the elbow. She was lucky it hadn’t hit bone.

  “Just hold tight to it,” I said, and then knelt up on the seat again to tend to Russell. I ripped his shirt open to examine the wound and was relieved to see the blood was oozing, not pumping. I got his coat off the rumble seat floor and formed it into a thick pad, packed it against the wound and tied it firmly in place with his shirttails. His jaw was swelling up bad. I’d probably busted it.

  No traffic in sight in either direction.

  I rinsed her wound with booze and bandaged it with my handke
rchief. She flinched and sucked hard breaths between her teeth but didn’t cry out.

  “That’ll have to do for now,” I said.

  “He was gonna shoot you, Sonny!”

  I blew out a long breath.

  “He was,” she said.

  “That’s his brother dead back there, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I know that,” she said softly. “It’s no reason.”

  I stared out at the empty road ahead. I thought of saying, Of course it is—except I wasn’t sure what that meant. How could I explain to her what I couldn’t explain to myself? It couldn’t be explained. You knew it or you didn’t.

  I forced myself to think clearly. Odessa was at least seventy-five miles away. And we’d have to go through Midland to get there—which would slow us down even more. But Bubber said Gustafson had an office in Blackpatch. A nurse there even when Gustafson wasn’t around. And there was that shortcut he’d mentioned—running from an old water tower on the Rankin highway. Fifteen rough miles, he’d said, but it was a hell of a lot closer than Odessa.

  I put the roadster in gear and got us going, heading for the Rankin road.

  “He gonna live?” Belle said.

  “If I get him to a doctor fast enough, maybe.”

  “Think he’s gonna feel any different if he does?”

  I didn’t know how to even try to answer that. And I wasn’t aware of my tears until she reached over and wiped at them.

  T he sun was almost out of sight behind the distant mountains when I finally spotted the water tower and then found the junction of the old wagon trace on the other side of the rail tracks. The route was as rough as Bubber had said. We’d gone about seven miles and were into the last of the twilight when the right rear tire blew.

  By the time I finished putting on the spare, the sky had clouded over and swallowed the crescent moon and stars and we were in full darkness. Russell’s coat bandage had darkened with blood. I couldn’t make out his face but I could hear his ragged breathing. I would’ve preferred to have him in the cab but the handling necessary to move him would only have worsened his bleeding. Belle got in the rumble seat with him and held him close to cushion him against the jarring of the car and keep the bandage pressed tight against the wound.

  “You never been shot, have you?” she said.

  “Not yet,” I said. Sometimes I had no idea at all of what was going on in her head.

  We pushed on. The wind picked up and a low rumble of thunder came out of the east. A few miles farther on the left rear tire blew. There was nothing to do but keep riding on it, the roadster at a sag. I could’ve jogged almost as fast as we were moving now, but we had to take it easy or risk losing a wheel or breaking an axle.

  Russell now and then muttered unintelligibly but never really came awake. It wasn’t the sock on the jaw holding him down now, it was pain and loss of blood. When we finally spied the lights of Blackpatch up ahead we’d blown the left front tire too and the car was listing like a foundering boat. The storm was closing in behind us, the rolling thunder growing louder—and the only thing we knew for sure about Russell’s condition was that he was still alive.

  The nearest spot to the Wildcat Dance Club I could find to park the car was in an alley a block away. The first rush of raindrops spattered on the ragtop. Lightning was showing in the east, thunderclaps following a few seconds behind every flash. I put my coat on and slid the .380 under my belt. Belle was still holding Russell’s bandage in place but the wound had been seeping steadily and the coat was sopped with blood. I told her I’d be right back and went down the alley and across the street and up to the back door of the Wildcat.

  I was hoping the door wasn’t locked and it wasn’t, but when I stepped inside I nearly bumped into a big galoot sitting on a stool and leafing through a movie magazine in the weak hallway light. He stood up like he meant to throw me out and I put my hand to the .380—and then we recognized each other from the time I’d been to the club before. He was one of Mona’s bouncers, a Swede named Max. I said I had to see Mona right away and he said she’d gone into her office with Bubber and they probably didn’t want to be disturbed. I said I’d take the chance and he shrugged and said, “Your funeral.”

  Mona’s office was near the end of the hallway, which formed a corner junction with a shorter hall to the left that contained the stairway and, a few feet further on, opened onto the main parlor. Muted music and laughter came from around the corner, the faint smell of cigarette smoke and booze and perfume. I tried the door but it was locked, so I banged on it with the heel of my fist. I looked back at Max and saw him shake his head—and heard Bubber say from behind the door, “This place better be on fire!”

  The lock clacked and the door swung open. “What the hell you think—” Bubber said, his face hard as a fist, and then he recognized me and his aspect eased. He was in his undershirt and holding up his unbelted and unbuttoned pants. “Sonny! What the hell…?” Behind him Mona Holiday was sitting on the edge of a bed, looking at me and hugging her removed blouse to her breasts.

  He ushered me into the room and did up his pants while I gave him a fast rundown of the break attempt. Mona stood up and turned her back and put her blouse on. Rain was clattering against the panes of the curtained window. When I told them Buck was dead, Bubber’s face creased up and he muttered, “Ah, shit,” and slumped against the dresser and rubbed his face like he was suddenly exhausted. Mona came over and put an arm around him. But they got a move on when I told about Belle and Russell. Mona ran off to alert Doc Gustafson, and Bubber put his shirt on and followed me down the hall.

  He said we were lucky the doc was still in town. “He come to give the girls their checkups,” he said, “but there’s a rumor been going around the Rangers are about to make a raid. Gus figured maybe he oughta get back to Odessa ruther than risk any of that. Then we seen this storm brewing and, hell, ain’t gonna be no raid on a night like this. He’s up there with a girl.”

  He told Max to come with us and we went out into a hard rain blowing sideways. Max was the only one wearing a hat and he lost it to the wind as we ran across the street. A bright branch of lightning was followed two seconds later by a prolonged crackle of thunder.

  In the rumble seat of the tilted roadster Russell and Belle looked like castaways. Russell was still unconscious. I helped Belle down from the rumble seat and then swung up into it and lugged Russell upright and eased him down to Bubber and Max. They carried him to the Wildcat through the blowing rain with Belle and me right behind them. We followed them through the back door and down the hall, but as they took Russell around to the stairway I steered her into Mona’s office. I inspected the handkerchief bandage on her arm and saw that it was holding all right, then told her to stay put and hurried out to the stairs.

  The second-floor landing was at the end of a long hall lined with rooms to either side. Bubber and Max were coming out of a room at the far end, followed by Mona and another woman. The woman carried a small black bag and shut the door behind her. Some of the girls were peeking out of their rooms and Mona ordered them to mind their own business and get back to work. There was some muttered cursing and laughter but as Mona came down the hall they all ducked back inside with a staccato of door slams.

  Bubber said Gustafson was doing all he could for Russell and didn’t want anybody in there and getting in his way. He introduced the woman with the bag as Nurse Rose. She was longfaced and bony and sharp-eyed, and she came downstairs with us to tend to Belle.

  H e drives into Blackpatch on the junction road, the Model T lurching with every gust of wind, the tires sucking through mud, the windshield wiper sweeping vainly against the hard crosswind rain. In the shimmering casts of lightning the surrounding derricks look like a spectral forest. He passes through a dense collection of tent residences, some of them broken free of portions of their moorings and flapping wildly in the wind, their drenched inhabitants flailing and tumbling about in their efforts to catch the loose flaps, to prevent still mo
re of their possessions from sailing away into the night.

  Now the junction road becomes the town’s main street and the bright lights are a wavering glare on the watery windshield. He has to strain to read the signs on the slowly passing establishments—the Miscue Pool Emporium, the Monkeyboard Game Palace, the Pipeline Café, the Yellow Rose Ballroom…one after another.

  Despite the wind and the closed car windows, the stink and tumult of the town carry into the Model T. He breathes the pestilential exhalations, hears muted shrieks and bellows from within each place he passes, raucous laughter, a squalling welter of music. He has looked upon many oil towns and despises them all as dens of rank iniquity. He abhors the worthless sorts who inhabit them—drifters and grifters, whores and gamblers and cons, thieves of every persuasion. It seems fitting to him that the brute he hunts after should find his way here, down to this foul pit.

  And then—in the next smeary swipe of the wiper, as another crack of thunder tremors the car and a snake-tongue of lightning illuminates the entire street in an eerie violet light almost bright as day—he sees the sign he seeks. The Wildcat Dance Club….

  S he was skilled at her calling, Nurse Rose. In fifteen minutes she had Belle’s wound cleaned out and bandaged, and she gave her some pills to take against the pain. The flashes of lightning had increased in frequency, the window curtain brightening with every flare, the sash rattling with every thunderclap. Max had gone back to his post in the hallway. Mona poured drinks for us all, but Nurse Rose politely declined. She closed up her bag and headed for the door, saying she should get back upstairs to assist the doctor.