Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

  “I don’t trust Baxter. The last time I made a report someone was killed. And my name leaked out despite assurances from the murder victim.” I told him of my visit to the newspaper and my talk with Jill Maxwell. I told him about her sudden vacation. “Somebody’s damming the swamp. I’ve been shot at, Chick’s been arrested, and Jill takes an unscheduled vacation. Bad things are happening to people I talk to, including the sheriff.”

  “Maybe the girl planned the vacation.”

  “No way. She’d never let go of something like this. Too hungry. Too good a reporter.” I told him of my visit with Willie Boy Roberts and Chick’s observation of Alan Winston. It failed to make him happy.

  “What the hell are you doing? You stay out of this investigation.”

  “What did we do? I can’t apply for a job, and Chick can’t visit a public courtroom?”

  There was a silence at the other end. I was beginning to think he’d hung up when he said, “You amateurs are going to stir up a hornet’s nest. You can’t go around burning the locals.”

  “So, what have you got?” I asked.

  “That information is privileged. You know that.”

  “You’ve got squat. I know Roberts is linked to the marijuana field because of the dog.”

  “Doesn’t do me any good. Where’s the dog now? Your word against his. We know Roberts is a bad actor, but he’s never been arrested or indicted for anything. Not even a speeding ticket. His sheet is clean. We can’t move on him until we’ve got something solid. The information you’ve given me is interesting, but you don’t just jump on a guy like Roberts without everything in place.”

  “Roberts is going to run you in circles. Eventually, you’ll leave town. He knows that. Or whoever shot Kennedy knows that, too. You guys leave and it’ll be back to business as usual.”

  “I should arrest you for interfering in a homicide investigation,” he said, then there was another pause. “But…there is something to what you’re saying. Roberts smells of something. Something familiar and out of place here. He doesn’t seem like a businessman. We’re running into blocks when we try to run Roberts’s background. Federal blocks. They won’t tell us why. Look, I’ll check on the girl and the big goon, Cugat, and try to get out to the marijuana site. But you back off. Do you understand?”

  I agreed to. Better off in his hands. I thought about Sandy. Bail Chick out, grab the chemist and head back to Colorado, and let the wheels of justice turn. I could always come back. Then I thought about Jill Maxwell. What if she never turned up? What if I couldn’t get Chick out of jail? Or, if I could, would they let him leave town? I asked Browne if he could do something to cut Chick loose.

  “You are crazy,” he said. “McKinley will fry my butt if I stick my nose in…” He paused. I heard him sigh. “What the hell. See what I can do. Maybe I can find something out. I didn’t want to make sergeant anyway. What would I do with the extra money? Easton may have done things you know nothing about, you know.”

  No doubt about that, I thought.

  “Meanwhile,” he said, “get him a lawyer and keep out of this. As for Roberts, I’ve heard some things. He isn’t anybody to push. You could end up with a permanent limp.”

  “You think he’s capable of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Murder?”

  “Damn,” he said. “You don’t listen, do you? That’s all you get. Head back to the mountains. You’re a pain in the butt.” He hung up, loudly.

  As he did, I noticed a brown Chevrolet pickup making its third circuit of the block. It had tinted windows. Couldn’t see inside. I memorized the license number and filed it away. Was I becoming paranoid? Like the comedian says, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean everybody’s not really out to get you.”

  I dialed Jill’s number again. The electric voice of the answering machine started up and I broke the connection. I didn’t want to leave my voice and name on tape at this point. While trying to think what to do next I’d forgotten about the pickup. A mistake.

  I felt a hand, a big one, on the back of my neck. It squeezed and my head exploded into little spiders of pain. Another hand gripped my belt and I felt myself being lifted. He grabbed my collar and hustled me down the sidewalk, my feet touching the ground intermittently. I weigh over two hundred pounds and he was handling me like a sack of feed. I struggled, reaching back to break the hand loose from my jacket, but couldn’t. He was too strong. I kicked back with my heel and caught a leg, but it was a glancing blow and did little damage.

  He shoved me into a darkened doorway and slammed me into the wall. The feeling of helplessness was pervasive. I was at the mercy of this powerful force behind me. I felt the rough contour of brick scrape my face. He drove a meaty fist into my kidneys, and for a brief moment I was afraid I would wet my pants like a child. He cuffed me with an open hand and the inside of my head erupted into a nightfall of diamonds. Consciousness pinwheeled away from me. As my head cleared I saw the face of the giant from Roberts’s office. He said something that bounced puttylike in my ears. My head was hazy, as if clouds of steel wool were clogging my thought processes.

  “…where you’re not wanted,” he said. “Smartasses can get stomped and shoved in a culvert around here.” He picked me up and slammed me down roughly on my feet. My teeth clacked together and my damaged knees felt like glass had shattered within them. My head smacked against the wall again. I couldn’t take much more. There was no fear, just the realization I had to stop this.

  His breath was on my face now, and it smelled of beer and tomato sauce. He had me by the front of my jacket with both hands. A voice behind him said, “Fuck ’im up, Cugie. S’matter, shithead? Nothin’ funny to say?”

  My head cleared. In the bigs you played with pain. Played through the pain. It was irrelevant to the task. I raised both arms and brought them down heavily against his forearms, which brought his face close to mine. Then I drove my forehead into his mouth and nose. I heard something crunch and pop like stepping on popcorn. I lifted my hands from his arms and lashed out with the back of my right hand, catching him on the mouth. I followed that with my left elbow, driving it hard against the side of his chin.

  He bellowed, letting go of my jacket to put his hand to his face. I felt something warm and damp on my forehead. I fought the fog drifting into my brain and staggered from the doorway. There was a form in front of me. Much smaller than the other man. Felt raw knuckles on my shoulder. I drove on through the man as if breaking a tackle. I needed to get away. The small man crumpled before me like a card castle. Must be near the goal line, I thought. I staggered three steps and fell against a parked car.

  I slid down. Down…

  THIRTEEN

  “We’re concerned about your conduct with the media,” said the voice of Richmond Butler, vice president of the Dallas Cowboys. His voice came at me from somewhere behind the too-large desk as he smoked a too-big Jamaican cigar.

  “I don’t conduct myself with them,” I heard my voice say. It was disembodied and hovering somewhere above me. “I don’t talk to them. I nod. I grunt. I take my shower.”

  “That’s the problem, son,” Butler said. He leaned forward. His face grew. Too much nose. Not enough chin. “You won’t talk to them. Why the mystery? What does it hurt to talk to them? It’s league policy and it’s good PR. As a Cowboy, you are part of this organization, and as part of this family it is your responsibility to promote the Dallas Cowboys.”

  “I do promote them. Every Sunday afternoon.”

  His face was warping, twisting out of shape. “We pay you a hell of a salary. You owe us.”

  “No,” I said, rising to leave. “I owe you nothing. You didn’t buy me. You rent my skills. Nothing else. You don’t get me. I belong to Christ and myself and I can walk out of here anytime.”

  Butler laughed and his too-large diamond winked in the artificial light. “Where are you gonna make the kind of money we pay you?”

  I laughed back at him, and it felt good.
“You think I do it for the money.”

  “What other reasons you got?”

  “If you have to ask,” I said, quoting Louis Armstrong, “you’ll never know.”

  He gestured with the cigar, and it flamed at the end like a torch. “You made a deal with us. You are what we say you are. That’s your job.”

  “I don’t have a job. I play a part. And whatever part I try to play, it’s obvious that the person who plays that part never suited up for the game.”

  Richmond Butler’s office dissolved into the hard pavement of a Paradise sidewalk. A female voice spoke and I felt soft hands against my face. I was in a movie and the heroine was kneeling over me, asking if I was all right. I forgot my lines and looked into the wonderful bone structure of Tempestt Finestra. Her eyes were large and green and soft. I reached up and touched her cheek and she kissed my palm. Despite my condition I felt stirrings inside. Not good. Sandy.

  “My God,” she said, and her voice resonated inside my head, bouncing off jagged peaks and canyons that hadn’t been there before. “Are you all right?”

  “You ready for that cup of coffee now?” I said, then laughed, which made my head hurt. Always on. Ever the performer.

  “You’ve got blood all over you,” she said.

  “Is it mine?”

  “Whose should it be? We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “No. Wait.” I sat up and took inventory. Moved my arms and torso. Took a deep breath. Dull pain in the ribs. Probably bruised. One ear hurt, and there was soreness in my back. I put a hand to my head and felt a sticky substance. Blood. Not mine, though. At least I didn’t think it was mine. “You see any cuts on my head?” I asked.

  She examined my hairline and looked closely at my face. “Some small cuts. Some abrasions. Nothing deep. But you need to see a doctor to make sure. The hospit—”

  “No,” I said. “No hospital.” I wasn’t being stubborn. Well, maybe a little. But I knew when I was hurt badly enough to need a doctor. I’d been hit harder and more often on several occasions. But it had been some time since anyone had handled me so easily. They were teaching me. Little demonstrations. First Chick, then me. I didn’t like it but didn’t know what I could do about it. “I’m okay. Nothing broken. No major cuts. I’ll be sore in the morning, that’s all.”

  She helped me stand. There was a roaring in my ears, like the sea in a conch shell, and I sucked in my breath at the pain in my ribs. It was annoying, not intolerable.

  “You see a big guy?” I asked. “Bald head?”

  “There were two of them. He was one of them.”

  “What did the other one look like?”

  “Skinny guy. Needed a shave. Arm in a cast.” Had to be my buddy Luke.

  “You recognize either of them?”

  “Yes. They work for Mr. Roberts.”

  “Why would an upstanding businessman like Roberts employ so many thugs?”

  “I don’t know what their job description is. I’m just a secretary. I don’t know everything that’s going on.”

  I let that pass. “Was the big guy bleeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  She gave me a severe look. Even in the weak light the cheekbones were wonderful. “That make you happy?”

  “It’ll do,” I said. “For now. How did you get here?”

  She looked blank for a moment. “What?” she asked, balking. She’d heard the question. I repeated it.

  “I was driving by and saw you fall against the car. Why were those men beating you up?”

  “I voted for McGovern in ’72.”

  “I ought to leave you here in the street,” she said.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.” Her eyes softened. “I didn’t. We need to get you home if you’re not going to the hospital. Where do you live?”

  “I’m all right.” I took a couple of steps, swaying as I did. “Maybe not.”

  “I’ll take you home,” she said.

  “I can drive myself.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “But I’m very clean.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “It’s a long way.” She turned on her heat-vision eyes. Not going to win this one. “Okay,” I said. “Good idea.”

  It was dark when we arrived at the cabin. She helped me out of the truck and into the house. I didn’t fight it. I was exhausted. My ribs were on fire, and my face was scraped raw and it hurt. I had some Percodan I used occasionally for my knees and an old shoulder injury. Football players are the biggest prescription junkies in the world. Couple of tabs and I’d be copacetic. I didn’t usually use drugs, but it would stop the pain and help me sleep.

  She helped me to the couch, and her perfume filled my head. She was beautiful. Glorious. I felt the tug of her. Steady, Wyatt. She walked behind the kitchen bar and made a couple of drinks. I smelled the heady wood aroma of bourbon. On the rocks. She brought them over, and I shook my head. A mistake. “Just water,” I said.

  She drank part of her drink, then poured mine into her glass and walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. While she did that I walked to the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet, reached inside it to get a brown, opaque bottle, shook two tablets into my hand, and returned to the den.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  “Painkillers. I couldn’t find a bullet to bite.”

  “You said you were okay.”

  “I am. Big day tomorrow.”

  She brushed back the hair from my forehead. “Why were they trying to hurt you?”

  Back to that question. You’re getting suspicious in your old age, Storme. “I’m not sure,” I said, being evasive. It didn’t make me feel gallant, lying to her, but I didn’t really know her, though I liked what I had seen so far.

  “People don’t get mugged for no reason. You must’ve done something.”

  “Can’t think what it might be.”

  “You don’t trust me,” she said.

  “Do you trust me?”

  She considered me with her emerald eyes. A smile grew in them. “You’re very evasive.”

  “And you’re very inquisitive. And intelligent. I like intelligent. You’ve also done work besides secretarial.” For a brief moment her eyes looked panicked. Maybe my imagination. Why did it seem as if everyone I met had something to keep back? Or maybe everybody does have something to keep back and I didn’t realize it. Things like girls dressed like men, but who could make you just as dead as a man could. Little girls with guns, on another planet, in another dimension, gnawing at my dreams, at my conscience.

  “Most people fall apart when they see blood, or men running from the scene of an assault. Not you.” And why had they run away? I wondered. “You were composed. Checked me for injuries. Knew what to look for. Followed me home.”

  “So I could seduce you,” she said. She smiled, then searched my eyes.

  “Flattering, but I don’t think that’s your entire motivation. You knew there was a possibility I was injured worse than I thought. But how could you know I am two hundred pounds of tungsten steel? Or that I still have a hundred thousand miles left on my warranty?”

  “Stay away from them,” she said. She reached out and took my hand in hers. Then she sat on the couch, pulling me lightly down with her. The touch of her hand had the warmth of friendship yet the heat of an effortless sexuality. Smooth, dark skin. Health that radiated like a highly tuned engine. Chopin’s “Heroic” was playing on the stereo. “Stay away from Starr Industries. You don’t know what you’re getting into. They are evil men.”

  “What’s going on at Starr? Do you know something you’re not saying?”

  “No. I just know you should avoid them.”

  “Who is the big guy?”

  “If I tell you, how do I know you won’t go looking for him?”

  “I’m going to look up a guy big as a rhino?”

  “Yes. I believe you would.”

  “I’ve already met him. Even
know his name. But why is he working for Roberts?”

  “I guess I could ask why you’re so interested in Starr Industries.”

  “You could ask,” I said.

  She smiled. “You may remember Cugat as the Sultan. Sultan Cugat. Real name is Faron Cugat. Pro wrestler. Had to quit when he nearly killed a promoter who owed him money.”

  Faron Cugat. He’d been with Atlanta for a couple of years. I remembered him now, because he was big even by NFL standards. Six feet nine inches and 325 pounds of bad attitude. Drummed out of the league for testing positive—steroids, cocaine, booze—anything he could inject, absorb, or swallow. A huge pharmaceutical test animal. During a preseason game he’d instigated a brawl with our offensive line. It took several minutes to subdue him. None of his teammates came to his rescue. Gerald Robinson, a friend of mine who played for Atlanta, told me after the game, “Cugie so full of Peres and ’roids, babe, you coulda performed eye surgery on him at halftime and he wouldn’t even blink.”

  After leaving the NFL he’d wrestled as the Sultan. Turban on his shaved head and a harem of girl attendants. Silly stuff. But it is a mistake to underestimate pro wrestlers. The wrestling is fake, but they are still amazing athletes.

  “Why were you driving down that street?” I asked Tempestt. “Nothing there but closed shops and bars. Not exactly on your way home.”

  “Time for you to get some sleep,” she said.

  Then we were quiet two beats too long. An awkward two beats. Chopin was building in the background. A man and a woman alone. Miles alone, and aware of each other. Feeling the presence of one another. She touched my cheek. Her hand was light and healing against my raw skin. She kissed me. I let her. I fell for miles into her scent, her soul, felt her firmness against me. We parted and I held her at arm’s length, where I could look at her. She said, “I’ll help you to bed.”

  I didn’t argue. I could’ve navigated it by myself but enjoyed being babied by this beautiful woman. She walked me to my room. I sat on the bed and she sat beside me. Kissed me again, and again I allowed it. Pulled her to me. The Percodan and events of the day started to work on me. I lay down. She put her head on my chest, and I fell asleep with the scent of her buzzing in my head.