Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 112, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 684 & 685, September/October 1998

The Safest Little Town in Texas by Jeremiah Healy

© 1998 by Jeremiah Healy

A former professor at The New England School of Law, Jeremiah Healy is also the author of the long-running series of novels featuring private eye John Francis Cuddy. Readers who want to keep up with the Cuddy series won’t want to miss The Only Good Lawyer (Pocket 3/98). Mr. Healy will also be making a departure from his usual form this summer with the release of his legal thriller The Stalking of Sheilah Quinn. (St. Martin’s Press).

Alone in the stolen ’92 Ford, Polk Greshen checked the rearview mirror. No cars behind him, period, much less one with bubble-lights on its roof. First good omen since he’d killed that gas-station attendant over the Oklahoma line.

“Damn-fool beaner,” thought Polk, focusing back on the road in front of him. “I tell him, ‘All right, I’ll be needing your cash,’ and he makes like, ‘Señor, no hablo the English.’ Only the beaner’d have to be blind not to see the nine-millimeter in my hand, me waving it at the register. What’d he think I meant? But no, the man has to be a hero, try for the | tire iron he had on a shelf behind some oil cans. Well, now he ain’t never gonna ‘hablo the English.’ ” Or anything else, far as that goes.

Polk had boosted the Ford from a movie-house parking lot five miles J from the station, so he figured it was still a pretty safe vehicle in terms of being connected to the killing. Radio didn’t work, but the air did — praise the Lord. Also, he’d found a set of keys under the driver’s seat that fit. “Damn-fool owner, might’s well leave them sticking in the ignition.” Only thing was, the Oklahoma police could have the license plate on their hot list by now, and Polk was pretty sure those computer things could run the tags on any car they stopped.

So after killing the attendant, Polk had driven real conservative-like, getting on U.S. 283 south and crossing the Red River into Texas north of Vernon. Maybe an Oklahoma stolen car wouldn’t get onto the hot list for Texas, and he could always hole up with a cousin lived just outside Hobbs, New Mexico, which should be due southwest from where he was right now. “About got enough money from the beaner’s till to see me through gas and food, long’s I don’t go hog-wild on things.” Polk also figured it was smart to stick to the smaller roads, and so far he’d been right.

Until the Ford’s goddamn oil light came on.

Polk used the heel of his hand to wham at the light, but that didn’t do any good. Pulling over to the side of the road, he got out. The heat was like standing on top of a griddle, but Polk didn’t plan to be in it long. He went to the trunk of the car, using the key that didn’t fit the ignition to open the lid. A rat-eared blanket, two wrenches, and... a bird cage? Would you look at that.

But no oil. Figures.

Polk slammed down the lid. “Should of stole some from that beaner back at the gas station. It was an omen, for sure, him having that tire iron by the cans there.”

The air frying his lungs, Polk tried to guestimate where he was at. Hour or more east of Lubbock, probably. But he hadn’t seen a soul along the road, not a house, nothing for quite a while. Looking west, there seemed to be some kind of signpost only half a mile on.

Back behind the wheel, Polk drove toward the signpost. Sure enough, it marked a small intersection, the arrow aiming north with “Bibby, 2 miles.” Better bet than taking a chance on civilization suddenly sprouting up in front of him.

Muttering under his breath at the oil light, Polk Greshen turned right.

“Well, well. Do you believe it?”

Polk expected Bibby to be no more than a crossroads, lucky to have a general store with a pump outside it. Instead, just about the time he could make out a clump of buildings in the distance, there was this real nice mini-billboard on the side of the road:

Another favorable impression as he approached the first few buildings along the main street. Old and mostly wood, except for the bank, which was yellow brick. But everything all spruced up with new paint and bright little signs like BIBBY CAFE and COLE’S HARDWARE and so on. Good omen, for a change. All the way at the end of the street, Polk thought he could see POLICE on a bigger sign with something else writ smaller beneath it, but it was too far away to read. “Don’t think I’ll be visiting that end of town, anyway, no-thank-you-sir.”

There was almost no vehicle traffic, only a couple of people walking heat-slow past the storefronts. Fortunately, in the next block Polk spotted a filling station — not a national company, just “GAS” — but it had a couple of service bays. He pulled into the station near the pumps, and a mechanic came out from one of the bays, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

The man was dressed in a white T-shirt and denim overalls, all kinds of things sagging in his pockets. Polk thought he must be just about dying from the temperature, though the mechanic gave no notice of it walking over to the Ford.

Polk glanced down at his own clothes. New, tooled boots; sharp, stone-washed jeans; and a Led Zeppelin tank-top from that Tulsa rockshop, the nine millimeter barely a lump where he’d stuck it in his belt under the top. “I’ll probably look mighty city to these folks.”

The man’s overalls had a name patch on the left breast. “Sid,” was what it said.

Without turning off the engine, Polk looked at him. “Sid, I’ll be needing some oil.”

A nod. “What weight you got in her now?”

Polk could hot-wire a car, but he didn’t ever have one long enough to think of such things. “Not sure about that.”

Another nod. “Your light come on, did it?”

“About three miles back, give or take.”

Sid nodded again. “Let me take a look under her.”

Polk had run some cons himself in the past, so he sure could see one coming at him now. He got out of the Ford, trying not to breathe the heat too deeply, and squatted down as Sid did about the sorriest pushup you’ve ever seen, face staring under the chassis.

“See that there?”

Polk used his hand to brace himself, nearly burning the skin right off the palm on Sid’s hot asphalt. Following the mechanic’s pointing finger, he could see the kind of drip-drip-drip you get from an old faucet. Only it wasn’t water.

“Oil, huh?”

“That’s what they call it.” Sid got to his feet like a lame bear. “I’m gonna have to put her up on the rack, try and plug the leak.”

“How much?”

“Won’t know that till I get her up there.”

Polk figured he could kiss what was left of the beaner’s money goodbye. “How long, then?”

A sweep of the hand toward the other cars in the lot. “Got four ahead of you.”

Polk considered grabbing this hick by the straps on his overalls, shaking him till he thought some about changing his priorities. But Polk was a wanted man driving a stolen car, and the less attention he drew, the better.

“Any place to eat?”

“Cafe. You must’ve passed her a few blocks back, way you were driving.”

“Thanks.” Saying it kind of flat.

As Polk began to walk, he adjusted the gun in his belt for strolling instead of driving. Passing two of the cars ahead of him for servicing, he automatically glanced at their steering wheels. Both had their keys still in the ignition.

Despite the temperature, Polk smiled, talking softly to himself. “Well, well. Old Sid tries to hold me up, leastways I can get myself some substitute transportation.”

Heading south toward the cafe, he noticed keys in the ignition of most every parked car on his side of the street and felt his smile getting wider. “My kind of town, Bibby is.”

“Afternoon.”

As the screened door slapped closed behind him, Polk looked at the woman who’d spoken. She was dressed in one of those old-fashioned waitress outfits and a bulky apron. Chubby, with brassy hair and too much makeup, her nametag read “Lurlene.” Polk thought about how convenient it was, everybody sporting their names for him, but he wondered how come they needed to, since in a town of 327, you’d think everybody would know each other. “Maybe their way of remembering who they are themselves,” thought Polk, and laughed.

“What’s so funny,” said Lurlene. Not sassy, just curious-like.

“Nothing.” Polk slid onto one of the chrome stools, resting his elbows on the Formica counter under a ceiling fan that might have been put up there in the year one. He glanced around the cafe. Old skinny couple — wearing sweaters, dear Lord — in one of the booths, young momma and her yard-ape in another. Four stools away, the only other customer at the counter was a fat fart pushing sixty, his rump overhanging the seat cushion, a fraying straw Stetson angled back on his head.

“Get you something?”

Polk looked at Lurlene. “Coffee. And a menu.”

She gave him a piece of orange paper, the items hand-writ on it, then poured some coffee from a pot into a white porcelain cup with a million little cracks on its surface, like a spider web.

“Lurlene, honey?” said the fat fart.

“Yes, Chief?”

Polk froze as she moved with the coffee pot to the other end of the counter. Then Polk, as casual as he could, kind of scoped out the man who might be a police.

Talking to Lurlene like she was a schoolgirl, but wanting to change a twenty. Polk noticed there was no gun on his belt. Maybe the fire chief? Un-unh. As the fat fart turned, Polk could see a peace officer’s badge on the khaki shirt. Now what kind of damn fool wears a badge without toting something to back it up?

Lurlene came toward Polk, pawing under the counter for what turned out to be her pocketbook. Opening it, she shook her head. “Sorry, Chief. And I know there’s not enough in the register yet.”

Polk looked up at the clock on the wall. 1:15 in the P.M. Must do one hell of a business, not enough change in the drawer after lunchtime to so much as cash a twenty. Briefly, he thought about helping the lawman out, and almost laughed again.

“Well,” said the chief, “I’ll just ask Mary over to the bank. Be right back.”

Polk watched the fat fart take about thirty seconds to make it off his stool and waddle out the door toward the yellow-brick building across the street.

Lurlene spoke to the back of Polk’s head. “Decide on what you’ll be having?”

He turned his face toward her. “Hamburger, medium. Fries.”

“You got it.”

Lurlene went through a swinging door, and he could hear her voice repeating his order. Left her pocketbook open on the counter, in plain view and an arm’s reach from a total stranger.

When the waitress came back out, Polk said, “Hey, you forgot something here.”

“What else you want?” Again not sassy, now just confused.

“It’s not what I want.” Polk gestured, feeling charitable. “Your pocket-book. Shouldn’t be leaving it out like that.”

Lurlene laughed and waved him off. “Oh, that’s all right. Bibby’s the safest little town in Texas.”

Polk thought about the billboard he’d seen. “That why your police don’t even carry a gun?”

“The chief? Well, he don’t really need to.”

“Kind of odd, don’t you think?”

“Not for Bibby. The chief used to be the guard, over to our bank? At least until the bank realized it didn’t really need a guard. Seemed a shame to have Harry — that’s his name, ‘Harry’ — be out of a job, so we kind of voted him police chief. Only he don’t have that much chiefing to do, since he don’t have any officers under him. But somebody’s got to process the paperwork those folks over to Austin make us file, and that keeps Harry just real busy.”

Polk sipped his coffee, but he was really tasting all this information. A police chief without a gun or other officers, a bank without a guard. And himself, Polk Greshen, sitting here with a broke-down stolen car, a passing need for money, and a nine mil’ under his tank-top. Omens. Omens just everywhere you looked.

He said, “Sounds like y’all don’t have much crime around here.”

“None, really. Not since we also voted to—”

At which point the cafe door slapped shut again, and fat-fart Harry the Chief returned to the counter, easing his haunches down on the stool he’d left and allowing as how he could use maybe one more cup of Lurlene’s coffee before heading back to the office.

Which sounded to Polk like fine timing. Yes, fine timing indeed.

Polk was kind of clock-watching. Ten minutes since the chief left the cafe and started walking up the street toward his station. The hamburger and fries Lurlene had brought weren’t half bad, though Polk realized his immediate prospects just might’ve brightened the meal some.

The young momma and her kid got up to leave their booth, the old skinny couple in their sweaters having teetered out a little before that. Polk decided he didn’t really want to be Lurlene’s only customer in the cafe. You spend too much time alone with a person, they tend to remember your face that much better.

What Polk figured: I finish up here, cross the street, and slip into the bank. With any luck at all, won’t be no crowd there, given how dead old Bibby seems to be. I flash the nine mil’ under some teller’s nose, then take what they got in cash and run to Sid’s garage. Only a few blocks, and either he’s got the Ford ready, or I boost one of the others. Hell, this town, I could jump in practically any car parked along the street, find the keys still in the ignition.

“More coffee?”

He looked up at Lurlene, poised with the pot over his cup.

“Just the check.”

After leaving a dollar tip — right generous, too — Polk got off his stool and ambled outside, not wanting to appear like he was in a hurry just yet. The young momma and her kid drove by in a Chevy pickup heavy on the primer, but the old skinny couple were sitting on a shaded bench a block toward the gas station. The woman jawing away, the man looking to be falling asleep. “Can’t hardly blame him,” thought Polk.

The rest of the street was almost deserted, Polk having to wait for only one car to go by before crossing to the bank. He entered the double doors, and it was dark enough inside that he had to let his eyes adjust some to the room.

High ceiling, with polished mahogany along the walls. The business counter was made of the same, three of those old-fashioned teller’s cages like... like the bird-thing he’d found in the trunk of the Ford. Another omen.

One colored girl, maybe twenty or so, stood behind the cage closest to the doors. There was nobody else in the place, and no sound, either.

“Well, well,” thought Polk. “All by herself for true, and not even bulletproof glass between us.”

He walked up to the girl’s cage, a little placard with “MARY” on the counter. Goddamn, but this is one well-identified town — Polk remembering Chief Harry saying that name back at the cafe.

“Help you, sir?”

Polk grinned, reaching under his tank-top. “You surely can, Miss Mary. I’ll be needing some cash for my friend here.”

The girl looked down at his side of the counter as Polk brought the gun’s muzzle up, pointed dead center on her chest.

“You getting the picture, Miss Mary?”

“Yessir.”

Said it real calm. Had to give her credit, didn’t seem even a bitty-bit scared.

“All your money, now. And don’t be pushing no alarm buttons, neither.”

“We don’t have none to push.”

Polk couldn’t believe this town. Wished he’d found it sooner in his life.

“The money, Miss Mary.”

He watched as she opened a cash drawer and started stacking bills in front of him. Polk wasn’t the best at doing sums real quick, but he could see lots of twenties and even some fifties in with the others. Might not have to hole-up with his cousin in New Mexico after all.

The girl stopped, closing the drawer.

“That it?” said Polk.

“Less’n you want the coins, too.”

He grinned. Genuine brave, this Miss Mary. “No, they’d just slow me down.” He gathered the cash, stuffing it into the pockets of his jeans. “Now, I’m gonna walk through your door there, and if you just sit tight and don’t do nothing stupid, my partner out front won’t have to shoot you. Got all that?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Mary.”

Polk backed up a few steps, then turned to open the door, sticking the nine mil’ back under his shirt.

From behind him, Mary said, “Sir?”

Polk turned back to see her leveling a pistol at him.

He barely had time to duck before the first round went off, deafening him and grazing his upper left arm, the flesh feeling like it bumped into a branding iron. Yowling, Polk barged through the doors just as a second round from Mary’s pistol lodged in the jamb next to his head.

Outside, Polk drew his own weapon, looking up to see Lurlene at the door of the cafe, the old skinny couple rousting themselves from their bench. No problem, once I...

Out of the corner of his eye, Polk saw Lurlene’s hand come up from the bulging apron, a small black— Goddamn, no!

Her first bullet whistled past his shoulder as he broke into a loose-limbed jog, the boots not really made for it, his legs feeling like they were taking an awful long time to get the message from his brain. He’d gotten about abreast of the old skinny couple when—

No. No, this can’t be.

The man was down on one knee, sighting a long-barreled revolver, while the woman had a cigarette lighter in her— Wait, a derringer?

They opened up on him, too, and Polk felt something like a hammer whack him in the right thigh. He nearly fell, afraid to look down and maybe see his own— No, can’t think like that. Got to get the car.

After what seemed to Polk like a mile of running through sand, Sid was there, just ahead, by one of his gas pumps. Closing the driver’s door of the Ford, as though he’d just rolled it out from the bay.

Already gasping for breath, Polk began waving to him with the nine mil’. “Sid, Sid...”

The mechanic waved back with one hand, dipping the other into one of the sagging pockets in his overalls and drawing a snub-nose belly-gun.

“No!” Polk knew he was screaming as he dived to the pavement, the bullets whining in ricochet around him.

Struggling back to his feet, the pain in his thigh growing bad — real bad — Polk willed himself up the street. He could hear the sound of people coming after him, different kinds of shoes making different kinds of noises. “The police...” he thought. “I make it... to the station... Chief Harry... stop this... crazy...”

Hobbling like a man in a three-legged race, Polk got to within fifty feet of sanctuary when he felt something hit him in the back. More like a baseball bat than a hammer this time, and he pitched forward hard, his weapon clattering a body-length away from his hand.

The shoe sounds behind him were getting closer.

With the last of his strength, Polk managed to lift his face off the pavement, see Chief Harry standing with fists on his hips in the station’s doorway. The smaller lettering under “POLICE” arced above the peace officer’s head.

The sign read:

Polk Greshen thought about all the paperwork that might cause, and why Chief Harry might be too busy to worry about toting a gun himself.