Authors: Daniel Boyd
“So get there.”
“Yeah-uh…” Slimmy felt the cold and hugged his arms quickly. “Uh, boss, how long you want me to wait there, I mean, uh, in case.…”
“In case of what?”
“I mean if they don’t make it. How long you want me waitin’ out there?”
The snow blew a short white blast in his face to underline the question. Sweeney looked out at the growing misery-weather.
“They got to stop the truck and get the load; that’s gonna take some time maybe,” he said, “then they get to the park and get clear across with it, and in this weather, that’s going to be a while longer I’m guessing….” He paused, like a man adding sums in his head. “But however long it takes ’em, they’ll be counting on having you sitting there at the other side to collect. And I’ll be counting on that, too. You understand it?”
Slimmy nodded. It made him a little dizzy, trying to concentrate on Sweeney’s words.
“So if you leave before they get there—if they get there and you’re not parked right there waiting for them, however long it takes—you better hope all this has melted off by then, and there’s a lot of grass growing between you and me.” He measured off a level stare and pushed it at Slimmy. “Understand it?”
“Yessir!”
“Then git!”
As he marched through the deepening snow to the wood-paneled ’41 Ford parked out by the highway, Slimmy told himself again and again how much he hated working for Brother Sweetie.
Well there’s ways of making it easier
. He felt the full pint-flask of gin bouncing deep in his coat pocket and smiled to himself.
That sunuvabitch don’t know everything he thinks he knows!
* * *
And as Sweeney drove his sleek and shiny Hudson Hornet through the deepening snow on the highway back to Bootheville, Mort sat patiently in the back seat, hearing,
It caaame upooon a mid-night clear….
That gloooriousss so-ong of olllld,
From annngels be-ending near to Earth,
To touch
,
Their harps….
and feeling glad he didn’t get stuck with Slimmy’s end of this job, and planning what he was going to do with his fifty bucks.
December 20, 1951
8:50 AM
Logan and Chuck
Seated on the hard bench, riding backwards, long legs out, feet propped on a money bag for stability, Logan Pierce studied the newspaper.
“Chuck, you ever read this comic strip
Pogo
here in the funnies?”
“Is that the one with the talking alligator?” In the cab, Chuck slowed for a curve, moved the wheel gently side to side to keep control in the thickening snow, and picked up speed again as the road cut deep into the woods where the drifts would be less trouble.
“Yeah. Well, I guess they all talk,” Logan said. “It’s full of animals talking to each other.”
“No, I don’t never read those little-kid comics.”
“Well I can’t put any sense to it. Sometimes they don’t even talk English. And the lines—you know the lines around the little boxes?—the lines aren’t even drawn straight.”
“I never read it.” Chuck eased off the gas pedal for another curve. “I just read the grown-up comics.
Dick Tracy
and
Steve Canyon
; that’s a good one. And
Little Orphan Annie
.”
“I like that one myself.”
“Yeah, you know, she’s just a little kid, but sometimes she says something that’ll make you think.”
“She sure does.”
“And speaking of which, you thought any more about what I said last week?”
“Some,” Logan admitted.
“So whatcha think?”
“I dunno.” Logan laid the newspaper down on the seat beside him and fished a toothpick from his pocket with big, blunt fingers. Chewed on it thoughtfully as he spoke. “Don’t see much point in it, I guess.”
“No point!” Chuck’s voice rose, and Logan said a quick prayer that he might not put the truck in a ditch. “You want to be shuffling other folks’ money around all your life when you could be helping out your town and make something of yourself maybe?”
“You mean get myself dead maybe.” Logan kept his voice soft, hoping not to excite Chuck. It worked.
Or maybe Chuck’s concentrating on driving in this mess
. Logan hoped so. “Being a cop, that’s dangerous work,” he finished.
“But the pay’s better.” Yes, the voice was steadier now. “And I’m thinking it’s no more dangerous work than this job here.”
“You ask me, it’s lots more dangerous than this job here,” Logan said evenly. “All we do here, you think on it, what this job is all about is we put money in this here truck and if somebody tries to take it, we shoot ’em. That’s it. Nice and simple, you ask me.
“But if I was to become a cop,” he went on, “well then I gotta bust up a bar fight or walk down a dark alley if I hear something, stop some guy maybe beating up his wife and when I sock the guy the wife socks me or I don’t know what all, but it’s dangerous work.”
“But the pay’s better.”
“What’s a cop make, anyway?”
“Drapp told me he takes home near seventy dollars a week.”
“Yeah, but that’s Tom Drapp, and that’s in Willisburg. Drapp, he come back from the war with a bronze star so he knows his way around trouble, and he’s been working there how long? Five years maybe?”
“Like that.”
“And us, we been here four years and bringing home more than sixty every week. Now where’s a guy like me gonna find a job to pay like that?”
Chuck’s voice rose again. “On a police force, you big simple.”
“Look, all I’m saying, it’s dangerous work, that’s all. A man like Drapp maybe he makes it look easy, but it just ain’t. You read in the
Citizen
last September about the murder of Gonzago?”
“Everybody read that,” Chuck snorted, “you couldn’t read about nothing else for a whole week. And it just goes to show what I said about getting on the police force.”
“It don’t go to show nothing of the kind,” Logan said calmly. “You read in the paper about Chief Hannon making the arrest and everything, but look a little closer: Anybody could tell it was Tom Drapp did all the work on that case. Took some smarts, too, but Drapp, he’s sharp. And if he’d get along with Chief Hannon a little better, he’d be in plain clothes now instead of still driving a black-and-white.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying cop work takes brains and guts and hard work, and this job here all it takes is a certain amount of guts. And no brains at all, no hard choices to make. See?”
“And all I’m saying is all we do all day is sit here like a lump of fubar in a plate of fubar stew and—Heads up!”
“Whatcha got?” Logan felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as Chuck slammed the clutch and tapped the brakes.
“Looks like a police car up ahead. Flashing light’s going.”
“Maybe they just couldn’t wait to hire us up.”
“Could be an accident most likely. Hold on, there’s a policeman out, he’s flagging us down. Better call it in.”
Logan was already at the old radio, flipping the switch and waiting for the tubes to warm up. Eventually, the tiny speaker emitted a soft, featureless blur of noise. He keyed the microphone.
“Jerry, this is Logan. Come in, Jerry. Over.”
The only reply was static slush, soft, thick and featureless—like the snow outside.
Up front, he heard Chuck roll down the window. “What’s going on, Officer?”
“Man’s pinned under the car.” The officer’s voice sounded tense and out of breath, but still authoritative. “Need help up here—fast!”
“Stay here, Logan,” Chuck called into the back, “while I check this out.”
Logan felt the truck rock a little as Chuck jumped out while he repeated into the microphone, “Jerry, this is Logan. Come in, Jerry. Over.”
And all he got was the same soft nothing for an answer.
Logan looked at the microphone, then at the radio, lips tight, brow creased. He started to call again, but—
“Logan, get out here!” It was Chuck outside, shoving the key in the lock and twisting it fast. “We got to move this car or some guy’s a goner!”
He hesitated, still perplexed by the silent radio.
“Logan—Come
on
!”
He grabbed the shotgun from the rack and swung the metal door cautiously open.
Outside, Chuck was struggling to keep his balance in shin-deep snow and pointing a frantic finger to the front. Ahead of him, a man in a police uniform glanced at the shotgun in Logan’s hands, waved a commanding arm like a man used to directing traffic, turned and started wading through the snow toward the flashing bubble of red light on his car.
Logan leaned out the door a little further, still clutching the shotgun, and looked up the road. About thirty yards away, under the police car, between the front and rear wheels, a pair of legs lay in the snow, twisted at an odd and painful-looking angle.
It was enough for Logan. He clipped the shotgun back in the holder and jumped out, stretching his long legs through the snow to catch up with his brother.
Halfway between the truck and the police car, it occurred to him to wonder how a man might get trapped under a police car on a remote stretch of road like this. But he kept wading through the snow.
So he was almost even with Chuck when the man in police clothes spun around with a gun in his hand.
December 20, 1951
11:15 AM
Officer Drapp
It took maybe a half-minute for me to get out of the truck and into the ranger’s cabin, and all that time the wind hit me like it was throwing bullets: big wet freezing-cold bullets to cut at my face and cover my dark-blue coat with a sheet of white. I got in, slammed the door behind me and tried to catch my breath.
Inside it was like you’d expect in a park. All logs and knotty pine walls, not big, but empty enough to look roomy. In one corner there was one of those big old-time radios, squeaking out
Star-r-r-r of ho-oly beauty bright,
Westward le-eading
,
Still procee-eeding
,
Guide us to….
On the wall behind me, they’d put up a couple of those wooden racks full of maps and bright-colored guides to the local attractions. In front of me, a plain pinewood desk gave the place a solid, official look. There was a ranger sitting at the desk with his back to me, talking on a phone about something, but I couldn’t hear much of it with the wind howling right outside. I kicked my feet on the wall, shook a couple inches of wet snow off my hat and shoulders, and stomped another few pounds off the soles of my boots before I clumped over to the desk. And while I did that, the ranger put the phone down, stood up and turned to watch me track the blizzard across his floor there.
“I’m Officer Drapp,” I said, “Willisburg Police.”
The ranger was big; taller than me and broader-shouldered, big and outdoorsy-looking, with a tan that hadn’t faded even in December. In a brown shirt stretched tight across big shoulders, the brass buttons sparkling like he shined them for a hobby. Only it wasn’t a he. She stood up behind the desk, showing a crease on her pea-green pants sharp enough to open a letter with, and from the wooden hat tree behind her taking one of those hats like Smokey the Bear wears.
“Is it still snowing out?” she asked in a voice soft as silk.
“Tell you the truth, I hadn’t noticed.” I shook another half-pound of it off my shoulders and tried to get a better look at her without being too obvious.
* * *
Now, in the movies, a guy sees a woman doing the kind of job at which there is usually just guys, he takes a step back and says something real brainy: “You’re a girl!” he says, or like that. But I wasn’t real sure. First thing I thought when I saw her was that does a man have a horse and it’s a really fine horse, and he likes it enough, well if he wants to dress it up like a park ranger and put it behind a desk, that’s his business. Next it started to come up on me that maybe this wasn’t a horse after all, any more than it was a man, and finally, a few long split seconds later, I figured out what it was—
“My name’s Callie,” she said, “Ranger Calpurnia Nixon, but I hate that name so it’s just Callie.”
Her voice sounded like that one from the movies, I can’t think of her name, but she’s skinny and not bad-looking and she always plays classy parts and she says all her
R
’s like they was
H
’s. I’d seen her in this one movie just a while back where she’s some preacher’s kid or something, and she’s in Africa or someplace and looking like you could keep ice cubes in her mouth, all white paint and primroses, and next thing you know she’s jumping Humphrey Bogart.
Like I say, I can’t think of her name right now, that actress I mean, but that’s how this Callie talked, all soft and high-class, and you couldn’t believe it come from that big ugly horse-face. Her nose was way too large to start with, and it had got broke at least once and wasn’t set good. Around that nose, her face was hard-skinned and squared-off: big eyes, wide mouth, strong chin, and she had cheekbones like to poke your eye out. She wore her brown hair short, and cut like a man’s.
“I’m afraid we just closed—but you don’t look as though you came here to enjoy the park.” The words came around her big teeth like it was someone talking behind her.
“Not today.” I kicked the last of the snow off the tops of my boots. “There’s some tire tracks running past here.”
“There are indeed.”
“Did you see what made them?”
“Why—are you following someone?”
“You see what made them?”
“Oh, I didn’t answer your question, did I?” She sounded really sorry about it. “No, I heard a car go by, the only one today, but by the time I got to the window it was out of sight.”
“How long ago now?”
“You are following someone, aren’t you?”
I didn’t ask again. Didn’t trust myself to do it nice. Just looked at her patient-like till she picked up on it.
“I think—and I’m not saying I know—I think it would have been more than half an hour ago, but not quite an hour yet.” She said it carefully, like she was really trying to get the time right. “When I hung up the phone I just now said to myself
I have to go out and look for them
. We just closed the park, but I told you that. Why are you following them?”