The Outlaw Stinky Joe (Baer Creighton Book 4), page 12
“Since you look the jittery type, let’s get a plan together for me to come out between these branches without you killing me.”
“Just come out. I won’t fire unless you attempt to escape.”
“Fine as water. Ducky.”
I grab the limb above and swing below, slow as not to give alarm. These police state cops seem to recruit from the kids everybody picked on. Got something to prove. I stumble on a branch and catch myself.
Not shot yet. Whooeee. Living big.
“So what you want? Put that down. You don’t need it. What you want with me?”
“You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Well, none of what I did was murder. Exactly. And besides, you got no authority. Your company credentials ain’t valid.”
I walk like I’ll keep going, provoke some red or juice to tell me what he’s thinking. His eyes skitter. He’s a modern pussified man. That’s the one to fear. Take a regular man who works with metal or wood, gets oil under his nails. He’s no better a truth teller than any other man, but at least he doesn’t scare quick and need to shoot a man before he turns into the big bad wolf. These wusses were raised to know they’re worthless, so where a normal man has confidence, they fill it with violence.
They get to crazy, fast.
This little shit’s one of them.
“Freeze. You are under arrest. If you do not comply, I will shoot you!”
I stop.
“Okay, McNulty. Your name McNulty?”
“What? No. What the—? Place your hands in the air.”
“You look like a McNulty.”
I got Stinky Joe out there with all of Flagstaff’s finest wanting to run a bullet through him. Cowering low under some brute’s hand. I spent the winter warm while Joe was off in the drifts, cold and hungry. And I didn’t do anything about it until I got the moral crisis riding me cowgirl. Meantime, Stinky Joe’s getting beat with a chain. I’m worth no more’n a lump of whale shit. That’s as low as a feller can get.
Guess I got to crazy faster.
“You shoot me, for real?”
He holds the square nosed gun steady, no jiggle. No juice. No red. Just a puss with total clarity. Wants to kill a man.
Me.
“I say, you shoot me? Now, I keep walking, you figure to pull the trigger?”
“You are under arrest. Lay down on the ground. Arms spread.”
“I’m unarmed. I’m a citizen. Looking for a dog—”
“You are under arrest! Lay down on the ground! Spread your arms!”
“Aright, aright! Easy, brother.”
Lift my arms, but I want to watch the end of this story. I’m so tired of it. It’s a bare-knuckle life, is all. No matter how a feller chooses to live it. After a bit it’s hard to give a damn about yourself or any other.
Got my hands high. Keep walking.
He strides toward me—closes fast. Lifts the gun from center mass to head shot—what I want. Easier to shift the head than the heart.
That’s always the truth.
I think on Stinky Joe, how he came to me at the cave like I was messiah to the puppydog. Slobbering and dancing.
Man got a duty.
But this fella thinks he upholds the law-and-order side of things. Thinks he’s on the side of the righteous.
Man made a mistake.
Size things up, look to where he’s weak and I’m strong. I cut right. Jump in close so his gun ain’t so comfy to point, and drop arm to hip. Come back up with a deer knife held for slash work, blade at the bottom, and zip that cutter up his right armpit.
His eyeballs pertineer dance out his head. Yeah, I got the artery. Should have thought on that before you decided to bring force on a citizen who didn’t buy your bullshit.
He holds the pistol in his left hand and that arm still works fine. I swing my blade back down and plant it where his neck turns to shoulder. Leave the knife and take his gun in both hands. He wrestles hard for one second then he’s a rabbit in the wolf’s mouth. Limp.
Pry the pistol free, and he reaches slow with his left hand toward the right side of his throat. That won’t work. I wallop him good, next his ear, and he falls over.
He makes the death sounds, the blood gargle-cough. Does the shaky. Eyeballs bulge like I stuck a compressor hose in his mouth. Guilt flashes through me but damn, none of this would have happened if one man hadn’t tried to push his will on another. Oh, they pretend they got the right because the bunch of them say so, but who has any right to violence, except the victim of it? They’re just carrying through in the name of Joe Stipe, on the perverted word of every other asshole with a badge, the whole law and order cartel that doesn’t live up to the law and sure as almighty hell don’t keep the order.
They started this mess.
Like it’s noble for the innocent man to just give himself up while these dipshits sort it out? I got but one life. Sacrifice your own.
To hell with all these FBI types.
His gun’s a Glock. I pull the slide. 40 Smith and Wesson. That’ll do. Tuck it in my backside and, truth told, I never liked a gun in the ass.
FBI man ain’t all the way dead but I don’t want to just stand here, so I kneel and jerk my knife out his neck. Wipe it on his coat, clean the corner of the thumb guard.
He connects eyes on mine. “Murderer.”
“You don’t even know why you tried to arrest me! Just took the word of the chain of command. You’re lazy and he’s corrupt.”
I cinch his belt, free the pin and yank. He rolls. Feed leather through loops and grab my new holster. Got a spare magazine in the back. Good thinking.
“I use to ignore people like you. You lie all the time—well, credit where due, you said you’d kill me—but you people lie all the time. You take what you want. Never wait a damn minute to bust in walls, burn people down. The badge makes it justice. Well, you and yours can burn. All I care. Bunch a no-count thugs. I had my fill o’ your type. Go to hell, y’all.”
Spit flies off my mouth. I look at him. Prick’s dead.
Ain’t like the lesson woulda took.
Before I stand tall again, I look about the land. All this commotion’s bound to bring in the next lawman. But I’m the only one here.
Piss me off. Don’t care if I never meet another human again. Just Lord above, help me save my dog. I’ll do anything you say. I got the evil same as any man and worse than some. Most. I talk righteous, though I ain’t. So I don’t deserve anything but darkness. So help me free my dog, and I’ll walk here to Idaho just to find some space. Live in the wood until you’ve had enough of me down here, want me to muss up hell. Since that’s where you’ll be sending me.
Christ, I lost my mind.
Amen.
Well, better take his cash. Pull his wallet from his butt pocket. Grab three twenties and some ones. Stuff the billfold back where it was.
Take off my belt—courtesy Luke Graves—remove the sheath, and thread it back with the Glock on my right hip and buck knife on my left. No more gun in my crack.
Nobody ahead or behind.
Give the dead feller a long look. Try to muster respect, find virtue in him. But he’s nothing but a fool following orders of another, sucking up to the demon on top.
I comprehend it like divine revelation: You don’t have to be evil to do evil. It’s all by proxy, when a dumbass thinks he doing good.
Me?
Me too.
Time to find Stinky Joe. I set off at a walk, but I got some juice in the veins after the knife work and I haven’t had booze in so long my body feels like a brand new machine.
Hang in there. When the situation’s so bad you think all’s lost, hang in there, Stinky Joe.
Chapter 26
Shirley Lyle groaned into consciousness. Eyes closed, she became aware of light and pain that seemed to have been deep within her brain for hours.
Something else ...
She’d heard the door.
She rolled. The motion increased her blood pressure, and the ball of pain in her frontal lobe exploded into eye-rattling torture.
Rotten tequila. One more manmade wrecking ball to the human experience. Screw men, and screw tequila.
Shirley’s feet hit the floor.
The door ...
Someone was inside her trailer. Hadn’t said anything, but the smell was different, maybe. Or the air pressure, the breeze. Something had roused her, because the best route through this kind of hangover was comatose.
Careful as possible, she tipped on her toes for two steps then, unable to continue, made sure she didn’t land hard on her heels. She slunk around clothes and books on the floor. Noticed her laptop on the bed and threw a blanket on top . She grabbed a mini baseball bat, akin to a night stick, from between her dresser and the wall. Slipped the leather loop over her wrist and clenched the handle.
Unless this intruder was here to put all her belongings away and buy some glasses, she’d beat him to death.
She dragged the mini bat against the faux-walnut paneling the length of the hallway.
“I’ll beat you to death, mothe—”
“Ma?”
“Brass?”
“Ma? What happened here?”
“I thought you were with the bigshots this week. In Phoenix.”
“What happened?”
“I know, right?”
She came around the corner. Stopped before stepping on glass.
“You got a broom?” he said. “I’ll clean this.”
“In the closet. By the bathroom.” Shirley winced from another spike in blood pressure.
Brass froze at the edge of the living room.
“Go ahead. I don’t watch them anyhow.”
He tromped over her VHS tapes and DVDs.
“No one uses VHS anymore,” Brass said.
He entered the hallway. Shirley looked at the sink. The faucet. Her tongue felt like a slab of venison with deer hair still stuck to the fatty lining.
“Ma—who died back here?”
“I’m sorry. I did that last night. Thought I flushed.”
“No, the blood all over the wall.”
“Oh. Well. That’s a totally separate story.”
“Separate from what?”
“All my stuff on the floor.”
He arrived to the kitchen with a broom and dustpan. Shirley leaned into the kitchen and dragged a chair by the aluminum top to the hallway. Sat, and cradled her head in her hands, elbows on knees. Pressed her temples. The pressure helped, then quit helping.
“Love, gimme a glass of water.”
Brass stopped brooming. Looked around.
“Plastic cups are in the cabinet.”
He found one with Mickey Mouse waving his finger like to say, don’t be a dumbass. Filled and rested the cup on the counter. He swept a path to Shirley. Returned with Mickey Mouse and water, twisted so she’d see the finger.
“You trying to make a point?”
“No. I always thought Mickey looked like—you know with his index finger in the air—like he was saying, now don’t you worry. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
“Oh, baby. My head. Do you have to talk so loud?”
“I’ll hush. So what happened?”
“Grab me some aspirin. Cabinet in the bathroom.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
“Ma, your liver.”
“My head hurts. Not my liver.”
Brass returned to the bathroom. Came back with a bottle of generic aspirin. She opened the bottle and downed a small handful. Brass resumed sweeping.
“You remember that new landlord of mine?”
“You mentioned him.”
“Well, that’s his blood back here.”
“And the mirror?”
“That was his bullet.”
“Where’s he now? Stuffed under the trailer?”
“I wish. No, I didn’t say that. He’s just a dumb moron.”
“That’s redundant.”
“He’s that dumb.”
“Why’d he bleed out on your wall? What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. A dog did.”
“Dog.”
“Yeah. He—it—kept ripping into my trash. Three times. Each week in a row, he ripped open each bag I put out. Spread garbage everywhere. I had to walk ten miles to clean everything up. Give me more water. Here.”
She passed him Mickey. Kept talking while Brass moved to the sink.
“So I set out some broth. Added some sleepy stuff, and when he zonked out, I brought him into the tub. Thought to drown him. But I spent my life in the love business. I don’t have any experience killing dogs. Or anything. So I filled the tub and I thought, here’s this desperate animal, people just hate him all the time. Look past him. Jeer at him, if they look at all. Cuss him and throw shit at him, and I thought, if I kill an animal like this, then I can’t expect good out of anybody. It ain’t Christian.”
“Neither are you.”
“Who says?”
“Uh.”
“I don’t proclaim it. But I don’t proclaim being a whore either.”
Her voice broke. Her lips cast into a clown frown and water spilled from her eyes. She wiped them with her palms.
“I didn’t mean anything.”
“Well, leaving out the spiritual matters, my landlord hates dogs. I think a dog ate one of his balls as a kid or something. No kidding. He’s all scarred and lopsided. But he comes in waving his gun, and that’s when the dog jumps up to kill him right back. Just like that. Ripped open his face and bolted out the door.”
Brass had been standing close by. He passed a fresh cup of water to her.
“And all that blood is from his face?”
“Uh-huh.”
Shirley finished the water in a single pull.
“And after the dog attacked him, he did all this?” Brass waved at the damage to her home.
“No. After that, he left. He gave me a thumb drive and then left.”
Shirley related how Clyde had instructed her regarding the drive. How she’d preserved it when Lester Toungate and El Jay came for it. How they’d tore her place apart, threatened her life, and how she’d barely escaped.
“You blamed the dog?”
“What should I have done?”
“Give him the drive.”
“That wouldn’t have been right. Clyde trusted it to me.”
“Ma, you’ve been around long enough to realize you need to give before you receive. Meaning, Clyde was ready to screw you over to save himself. Use you. And you don’t owe him anything.”
“Yeah, well, at least he asked. Lester come in here and did the damage. Disrespect like nothing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve had a couple beatings, let me tell you. But that’s different. A man beats you, it’s cause of how little he is and how big you are. In his mind, right? Like he’s loopy in the head. But Lester, he treated me like a bug. Like he’d as soon step on me as not. Destroy everything I own. Pull my wings off and burn me under a magnifying glass. Not because he’s little and I’m big, but because I’m nothing at all, and in his mind, he’s God.”
“Well, you need to lose the thumb drive. Either give it to him so he leaves you alone, or throw it away somewhere.”
“Nah. Mm-mm. Hell no. I’m going to ruin him. I’m going to toss his life like he tossed my house.”
Brass pulled a chair beside his mother. Sat. Took her hands in his. “I know you’re upset. But you don’t want to pick a fight with Lester Toungate. He’s the baddest news in Flagstaff. There’s people afraid of him in Phoenix. Hell, Tucson. He’s been pure evil a lot of years, and he’s gotten away with it because he’s good at it.”
“Look what he did to me!”
“Not to you. To your house.” Brass shook his head. “I have the day off. I’ll clean it. You go back and rest. You’re blowing tequila. You got to feel like death.”
“I thought you were looking for an issue to run on. Well how about that? You’ll be the man who takes down Lester Toungate. If he’s got people scared all over the state, you’d ride that straight to higher office.”
“I’d take any office. But I want to arrive alive. Go to bed. I’ll clean this up.”
Chapter 27
Lester Toungate packed an overnight backpack with coffee, socks, a sleeping bag, tarp, and food. Of the three Remington .30-06s he owned, he grabbed his favorite, with the dinged-up stock kept at a dull, linseed oil glow. He loaded the rifle and threw the rest of the ammo box in the pack. Put it in his Dodge Ram. Brought the blue towel that held the renegade dog’s scent, and called Lucky.
Time to settle this mess.
El Jay had pissed around two hours loading the Harley onto Clyde’s F-150. If ever a man didn’t want a job...
Now Lester needed to figure out what to do about El Jay when he came back. Part of him thought, you only got one son left ... kind of limits your options. And the other part of him said, I’d rather have no son, and the man who takes over the show be from some other blood. Make him a Russian. Whatever. Let Darwin solve it.
I didn’t get here by birthright.
Like I’ll ever die.
Finally El Jay drove off, slow, as if afraid he hadn’t tied down the Sportster right. But the bike didn’t jostle on the driveway. El Jay was gone.
By then, Lester was throwing his bag in the truck. He turned to Lucky.
“Let’s go find a white pit bull.” Lester opened the passenger door, and the dog leaped. He failed to attain the seat and fell part way out. Lester hoisted him. Lucky yelped with the pressure at his mid-section.
Lester ran his finger along the dog’s jowl.
Blood.
Again.
“You hang tough. We got one more job.”
Lester drove to the Mountain View Mobile Home and RV Resort and parked at the main office, but around the side, where the truck would be less visible.
Stepping to the passenger side for Lucky, Lester glanced at the trailer park office.
