Wicked City

10

JACK BLACK would often stop by that July on his midnight patrol, and I’d make him a cup of coffee and we’d usually sit outside on my back porch and talk in whispers and smoke cigarettes, and he’d tell me a little of what he was hearing out of the AG’s office. About the only thing so far was that they were racking up a hell of a bill at the Ralston Hotel.

He told me a few good stories about the general in charge of the command, a millionaire in the steel business from Birmingham named Crack Hanna. Hanna had recently told a local minister to go piss up a tree after complaints that the troops frightened the townspeople.

I smiled. “We once had a minister here who decided to go all out against the Machine. He laid out a thick Easter Sunday sermon about the immorality of drinking and gambling and harlots and all that. I’m sure you’ve heard that kind of thing before. It wasn’t but a few days later that some of the boys around here sent a prostitute to visit with the minister.”

“She screw him?”

“No. She ripped off her clothes and yelled rape, and it wasn’t but about thirty seconds later the doors busted down and in came Fuller and some deputies.”

“Fuller is a piece of work.”

“He’s no fan of mine.”

“I bet.”

“You think he’ll make a move?”

“Maybe.” Black shrugged. “I’d watch my back if I were you. You hurt his pride, and for a guy like that that means everything.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it pride.”

“He’s pretty much a single-minded shithead.”

“I bet you wish you were back in Birmingham right now.”

“I’d be out on patrol, same as here.”

“You like being a cop?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “Didn’t figure myself on a desk job after I got out of the Army.”

The rain had just started and it pinged on the metal roof, and Black looked above him and then out to his open jeep and shook his head. The phone started to ring.

Black flicked the cigarette under his foot and crushed it.

I caught the phone, and ten seconds later I was out the door with my rain slicker and ball cap.

Black ran alongside me, saying he would drive.

He knocked the jeep in gear and didn’t even ask about the call till we were headed down Crawford. The jeep jostled and groaned as we took a hard turn up Summerville Road.

“Britton said he saw men creeping around his backyard.”

“How many?”

“He couldn’t tell. At least two.”

“Let me guess, he didn’t call the police.”

I shook my head.

He reached for the radio.

THE YOUNGBLOODS TOOK THE FRONT DOOR WITH A CROWBAR, and Johnnie picked the rear lock in seconds. Reuben followed, shining a flashlight across the kitchen and a little refrigerator. He heard the floor creak, and when he turned there was a huge boom and a big hole appeared by his head. Johnnie rushed the old man and tackled him and the shotgun before he could reload, and Reuben turned on the kitchen lights, his right ear deaf and buzzing. Hugh Britton was dressed in blue pin-striped pajamas, his black-framed glasses crooked on his head, and he was cussing up a storm.

The kitchen was a spotless, modern wonder of white appliances and a light green tile counter. Reuben set his gun on the counter and breathed.

No one said a word. Johnnie handed Reuben some rope, and he got down to the floor and hog-tied Britton, the old man fighting and flailing but quickly subdued. And then the Youngbloods, giggling and laughing in those sad, white-lipped clown masks, pushed Britton’s wife through the door, a large woman – maybe twice the size of Britton – in her nightshirt and hairnet.

She screamed and wailed and punched at the men with the flat of her tiny fists.

The Youngbloods forced her down to the ground and tied her the same way, before dragging the couple back to their bedroom and setting them in each of their single beds. One of the clowns, Reuben couldn’t tell who, leaned down and put a big, wadded-up panty in the woman’s mouth, and, as she screamed, kissed her on the head and told her good-night.

The overhead light was turned off, and Benefield was in the living room opening up his wood box and pulling out sticks of dynamite.

“You scared them,” Reuben said. “Let’s go.”

“We ain’t done.”

“You didn’t say we were keeping them here. Pull ’em out, goddamn you.”

Benefield looked up at him with sad ole Emmett Kelly’s face and pantomimed that he couldn’t hear him, and then he gave a sad-clown shrug and went back to work setting out the slug bombs and attaching a long fuse.

But then all the boys heard the door creak and they turned their heads. Reuben ran back to the kitchen, and the door buffeted against the stiff, hot wind and rain, but he saw no one. He shook his head and closed the door and walked back to the TV room, where the three men played like three boys as they set the charge.

One of the Youngbloods held a flashlight over Johnnie’s quick hands, and Reuben looked to each of them inside their rubber masks to see if their eyes showed anything. He took a breath and reached for his gun, but then there was a hard, booming shot and Benefield got kicked back to the floor.

Reuben dropped to the ground, only a night-light burning in the long hallway.

Benefield crawled on the floor, holding his bloodied shoulder and moving across the light blue carpet trailing a long red stain.

BLACK WENT ON IN THE HOUSE AHEAD OF ME AND I trailed back through the kitchen, hiding behind a door as the man in the mask walked inside and then turned away. I had Black’s.45 cocked and locked, and I tried to control my breathing as I crept around Britton’s linoleum floor, the room smelling of fresh biscuits and bacon, and made my way into a small dining room with all-new modern accessories from the Sears Roebuck catalog. Britton had covered the floor with the best and newest wall-to-wall carpet – baby blue – and I was damn glad now as it muffled my steps as I rounded the table, past the big buffet filled with his wife’s china and a wall of sepia-toned photographs and new black and whites.

I moved into the living room, and it sat there empty and quiet, with a long green couch and little orange chairs and long bank of bay windows. On the floor was an open box, and I squatted down, seeing the dynamite sticks stuck down in a mud bucket. My mouth went dry as I stood and turned and faced a tall man in a clown mask holding a gun.

The light was narrow and dim from the back hallway, and he was just a shadow as he raised a pistol and I did the same.

REUBEN WAITED IN THE BEDROOM, WITH BRITTON AND HIS wife struggling in their beds. The Youngbloods looked to one another and then nodded, and then Ernest, the taller one, headed back into the short hallway, and Glenn, after checking his revolver again, followed. Reuben looked down at the two twin beds, the little round alarm clock between the couple and the big framed picture from a wedding back in the old days on the nightstand. Britton’s glasses had been knocked away, and as he kicked and squirmed on the bed he squinted up at the dim light.

Reuben ran for a side window and pulled it open and pushed through a jagged holly bush, cutting his arm, and rounded his way on the lawn. Out in the little lawn in the wet green grass, the rain looking like silver pins in the streetlight, he saw a bloodied Johnnie Benefield lighting a stick of dynamite he held in his teeth.

I SLOWLY MOVED TO MY FEET, AND THE CLOWN STRETCHED the gun out in his hands, pulling back the hammer, and then there was a boom, and the clack of a reload, and the clown was down on his back, almost comical in falling, like a cartoon clown with the rug swept out from under him, but there was a hole in the middle of his chest that was large as a saucer. A big, ugly sucking wound, and his voice sounded moist and wet and cracked as I stepped down to pull off the mask.

Black called out behind me, and I quickly pulled up my.45. In the hallway was another one running for me and the downed figure on the baby blue carpet, and as he raised a pistol with his hand, rushing for me, coming hard, I shot him three times.

Black walked up beside me and pulled me with him, as I tried to kneel and check on the men, and he told me to go back through the back door and that he’d take the front. And then the whole outside bay window exploded in a lightning of sharp yellows and blues, and the concussive force knocked us both down to the ground, burying our heads in our hands.

“COME ON,” REUBEN SCREAMED AS JOHNNIE LIT ANOTHER stick and pitched it toward the house with his good arm. Moon had fishtailed the Hornet on the slick street and barreled toward them, the big, round headlights looking like eyes as he zoomed down the road and fishtailed again, braking hard and throwing open the passenger’s door.

Johnnie touched the fuse and it caught and zipped, and he launched it up on the shingled roof and it rolled into a gutter. “Hot damn!” he yelled.

They heard sirens, and Reuben reached for Johnnie’s bloody yellow shirt and pulled, but Johnnie pointed a gun at him and told him to get to the car or he’d blow his fucking brains all over the street.

Reuben ran for the car, and, as he did, he saw a man coming around from the side of the house.

I MET ANOTHER CLOWN AT THE EDGE OF THE DRIVEWAY, but he had already seen me and had a gun drawn and pointed at my head, standing his ground, sirens in the distance. Then part of the roof exploded and cracked, and we were knocked off our feet, the house now catching on fire, and I couldn’t see or think but scrambled for the man and the gun, but he was on his knees, looking at me, the pistol still out but shaking. I put my hands up, and we both steadied ourselves. A man by a black Hudson yelled for him to shoot the sonofabitch and come on.

And he pointed the gun at me, the silver rain falling sideways. I could not breathe, fear sweating through my skin and across my face. I closed my eyes, and when I didn’t hear a thing I opened them and the figure was gone, piling into the Hudson and peeling away, dipping over the top of the hill, its red taillights shining and then disappearing over the ridge.

Black appeared from the front of the house, kicking down the front door and carrying Hugh’s wife, which, in kind terms, was a hell of an effort, and Britton was alongside of him in his pajamas and without his glasses and looking up at his house all torn away and battered and on fire, and he stepped over to me, squinting into the rain and the black, and said, “Lamar?”

“It’s me.”

“There are two dead men in my house.”

“I know.”

“Major Black says he got another, but we can’t find him.”

“I only saw the two.”

“You shoot them boys?”

“I shot one.”

“Good going. You saved the others for me, right?”

“You know it,” I said, and put my hand on the older man’s shoulder and stood out there, watching his perfect little home burn, until the Guard showed up and the fire trucks and the neighbors and, ultimately, the newsmen, who would take pictures until five o’clock the next day.