The Last Call

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Julie got up during dinner for a bathroom break. It was probably the only chance I’d get for a while to talk with Hank alone.

“Hank, either I’m the most gullible fellow you ever saw, or I’m missing something vitally important.”

“It’s both,” he said. “But what’s on your mind?”

“I feel like every move I make is the wrong one. Also I’ve got this itchy feeling on the back of my neck.”

“I know what you mean. My short hairs have been on end ever since those pot shots through my living room window.”

“So you understand me. I’m not going nuts.”

“I understand you, more than you know. And yeah, you’re pretty much a basket case, all right. She’s got a pretty short leash on you, Bill. Now don’t puff up like a toad. Any man-well, a lot of fellows would gladly trade places with you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s for sure.”

Outside the sky had turned a soft shade of purple with clouds thinning down to thin puffs. The sun was going down somewhere out of sight.

“You know, Hank, this might sound… different, but this is sort of what I dreamed my life would be like when I was a kid.”

“What? People shooting at you and houses blowing up in your face-correction, my face-and heading off into the dangerous unknown?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah,” Hank said, and sipped his coffee.

“So what’s the important thing I’m missing?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know, since you’re feeling so fine at the moment.”

I thought about it.

“Try me,” I said.

“Okay, hotshot,” Hank said, and looked off into space. “It’s what I was missing right up until we left your house today.”

“And that is?”

“Who are the cops that are following us?”

“What? Not again.”

“Hold on, there, Texas. As far as I can tell, they’re not Austin locals. I got one good look when we split up to make your last call. They’re feds. I’m almost sure of it.”

I had that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You don’t look so good,” Hank said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t feel exactly wonderful.”

“Not what you wanted your life to be like?” he asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Sarcasm.”

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Let’s just move on, Bill. Let’s keep an eye on them and act like they’re not even there, for now. They may be following me, you know? That missing IRS agent?”

“I thought we weren’t talking about that,” I said.

“We’re not. Just bringing up possibilities.”

I noticed Hank’s eyes flick over my shoulder and then back to me.

“Julie?” I said.

He nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “Mum’s the word.”

“Fine.”

A moment later I felt a delicate hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her and gave her my best smile as she sat down beside me.

On the way out of the restaurant, Hank tapped me on the shoulder and nodded. I glanced quickly where his eyes indicated, trying to be nonchalant, and saw them.

Two guys. One white, one black. They both had business suits on. One of the two-the white guy-was beefy, about two hundred and fifty pounds.

Feds.

I knew then what Hank meant. They exuded it like an aura.

We moved through Fort Worth and out the other side and up onto the wind-swept North Texas plains as night fell.

It was a dark night with a spread of stars over us and clear road ahead. Julie nuzzled into my shoulder, finding the most comfortable position for herself, and the most painful one for me. Such is life. I endured it for about twenty miles before shifting her slightly.

After an hour or so she awoke.

We passed through myriad small towns in the night and little communities with no name.

I heard snoring from the back seat and craned my neck. I’d thought it was Hank, but it was Dingo. Hank and I traded knowing nods.

My eyes were beginning to glaze by the time we made it to Dumas, Texas. We found a motel on the main drag, an Indian-run outfit that carried a light scent of curry, even outside.

Hank took the room next to me and the blond.

That night Julie and I made frantic love in the dark. We didn’t speak.

Several times during the night I awoke to get up and scan the parking lot. There was only one other vehicle, and it looked like it hadn’t moved from its spot in quite some time.

Finally, I was able to sleep the sleep of the just and had dreams of Julie, Hank and me in plaster casts. Dingo drove the Suburban and sang with Hank Williams, Jr.’s voice.

“Kathy, it’s Bill Travis.”

“Hi Bill Travis. You’re up early.”

“And you’re at work early. Did you even go home last night?”

“Of course. Contrary to popular belief, librarians do have a life.”

“But a quiet one,” I said.

“‘Tis true. ‘Tis true. Bill, that research you wanted me to do?”

“Yeah?”

“Interesting stuff.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well, for starters, there was a whole gang of people running that town up there, but you were right, two chiefly. Bryan ‘Whitey’ J. Walker and Matthew Carpin.”

“I know what happened to Walker. What about Carpin?”

“He went into hiding, then about ten years later he was suddenly legitimate. Made a killing racing horses. He was always watched, though. The J. Edgar Hoover crowd had his number.”

“I’ll bet,” I said. I looked over at Julie, still asleep under tousled covers. The light from the new day streamed through cracks between the window curtains.

“And money? According to the Amarillo Globe, in 1927 the two most profitable legitimate businesses were the sheriff’s office and the undertaker.”

“I’ll bet.”

“There’s more. You said something about a U.S. Marshal. There was one. He went into that den of thieves and was never seen again. I think that’s why Carpin was watched after all those years. I got copies of reports and letters from the state archives. The FBI writing to the Governor’s office, demanding help with the continued investigation. Looks like they never found that poor man.”

“What was the marshal’s name, Kathy?”

“Jonathan Johannsen. They called him ‘Jack’, which was short for ‘Blackjack’.

“Thanks, Kathy. I owe you.”

“Sure do. Bye, Bill Travis.”

“Bye.”

I scanned the parking lot outside.

Nothing.

I got Julie up and by the time we were showered and cleaned up and ready to go, Hank and Dingo were sitting in the Suburban with the back flung open. Hank was tossing bacon strips into the air for Dingo to catch.

“Bacon?” I asked. “Where’d you get bacon?”

“Down the road. A little diner. Your kind of place, too.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Soul food,” he said and tossed another strip of fat bacon into the air. Dingo gobbled it down instantly.

“Oh,” I said. “You already had breakfast, then?”

“Nope. Waitin’ for you two. Had to feed the dog, though.”

“Okay,” Julie said. “I need coffee. Let’s go.”

We parked in front on a wall that was covered with a mass of ivy. The name of the restaurant was “Jerry’s Place”, an ancient brick and clapboard affair that looked as though it had started off life as a 1920s gas station and had gone through a long series of abandonments before finding its highest and best use as a soul food restaurant. The front door was little more than a couple of clapboards grafted onto steel mesh with baling wire, but the blue paint looked fairly fresh. It didn’t come off on my hands.

The hours were prominently displayed:

OPEN EARLY — CLOSE LATE

Walking into the place was like coming home. It had that day-old bread smell to it that is common among such establishments, but beyond that it had a shabbiness and a Spartan utility that combined in such a way as to command comfort. There were checkered tablecloths, though they were covered in thick clear plastic that had molded itself into a permanent shape, and smooth, straight-backed hardwood chairs. Also the lighting was slightly dim. We passed a table that had a box of yellowed dominoes on it that looked older than myself.

We took a table in the corner near an old jukebox. I took a look at the selections. It was a museum piece, with seventies disco music mixed in with Marvin Gaye and trucker music. It looked as though it was either out of service or that none of the clientele was willing to risk hard-earned money in it.

“Some place, ain’t it?” Hank said.

I could smell the kitchen already, and knew the food was going to be good.

“You haven’t lived, Hank,” I said, “until you’ve tried pork chops that melt off the bone and collard greens that have been steeping since New Year’s.”

“Stop it, Bill,” Julie said. “Damn but I’m hungry.”

The proprietor was a heavyset black woman with a cherubic smile and wide eyes. She seemed pleased to see us. The menus were pieces of tan-colored stiff-backed paper run through a copy machine.

“What’ll you folks have to drink?” she said.

“Coffee,” Hank said. “All around.”

“Fine. Be just a minute.”

We spent a few minutes looking over the menu and discussing it. We were all looking forward to breakfast. It was too bad when we realized we wouldn’t be getting any.

We heard the twang of the screen door opening and thought little of it at the moment. Julie was facing away from the door and I had my back almost directly to it, but Hank was sitting there looking over my shoulder, not saying a word.