Los Angeles Stories (22 page)

Warm in the winter, shady in the summertime,

That's what I like about that fat gal of mine

Everybody in the place knew it: Joe Maphis and Merle Travis were the perfect combination, like a flathead motor and Lincoln gears. Everybody, that is, except for the four men seated in the back behind the post: Woof Daco, Indian Charlie Smallhouse, and the Poncey Brothers, looking spooked. If you were paying attention to them instead of Joe and Merle, you'd have figured that a deal was being discussed and the discussion was not amicable.

“It's your choice,” Woof said. “I paid you money. You got two days more to get me what I want, or I'm going to start hurting you real bad. Isn't that so, Charlie?” He turned to the Indian.

“They can run, but they can't hide,” Indian Charlie said in his hoarse whisper. He smiled at the boys.

Terry Poncey had a little bit of a cool­-cat act he'd been working on most of his twenty-two years, but it was all he had. “We lost track of the kid for a while, but we know where he's at now. We'll get it. You ain't got a problem.”

“A little problem for me is a big problem for you punks,” Woof said.

“Gone be a­dee­yos, baby,” Charlie said. The two boys got up and left. Terry used a piece of copper wire to jump­ start the Ford, and the car limped off into the night, pulling slightly sideways in the direc­tion of Palmdale.

A woman in a pre­war Dodge coupe passed them on the road. She was headed for Brakke's. She turned into the parking lot and drove the car up to the front door. Inside, the boys were just getting started on “Divorce Me C.O.D.,” which had been a big hit for Merle. The woman opened the trunk and began to throw items of men's clothing out onto the parking lot. Suits, shirts, underwear, shoes, the works. When she was done, she backed the Dodge out. The future ex-Mrs. Ray McKinney headed north toward Willow Springs in a cloud of oil smoke.

Indian Charlie made his way over to the bar. He held up two thick fingers. A man standing at the bar looked Charlie up and down. “Alice has got a sense of humor, I don't,” he said.

“Now, Earl, that's all right,” Alice said.

“You're a nice woman, Alice. This is a man's business,” Earl said. He was medium drunk.

Charlie turned to the man. “What are you drinkin', friend? I'd be real pleased if you'd allow me to stand you.” Charlie smiled his strange Navajo smile and nodded.

“I don't allow no redskin to address me in that style and manner, nor do I appreciate redskins coming inside a place where I drink,” Earl said. It was his last remark, followed by a deep gasp of shock and pain brought on by Charlie's surprise balls-­in-­a­-vice grip and the unmistakable sawed-­off shotgun barrel that Woof Daco jammed hard into the seat of Earl's Western-style trousers. Nobody noticed as Charlie and Woof eased Earl out the side door into the parking lot.

“It's your choice,” Woof said after Charlie got Earl pinned down on the asphalt. “Repeat after me: ‘It's a known fact that I am no better than a sack of pig shit,' or we take your pants and shoes.” Earl tried hard to talk, but all he could do was grunt. Getting no reply, Woof unsheathed an eighteen-­inch bowie knife and cut Earle's pants from the waist down to the cuff. Charlie pulled the pants away and considered. “I say we leave the shoes,” he said. The two men drove away in the Ranchero. After a while, Earl felt his groin start to relax, but he had been drinking rye and his head was spinning. He lay there staring up at the stars, trying to focus. The band had switched to a walking ­bass, honky-­tonk ballad he didn't recognize. Someone other than Merle Travis was singing:

Going to Shmengy Town, back to Shmengy Town

Big city life has really got me down

It's a place of sin, there's no room for me

I won't be around, I'm going to Shmengy Town

My dreams of yesterday have all passed and gone

I watched them slip away like a bird that's flown

I saw my chance go by, and the sands of time

Drift through my hands, I'm going to Shmengy Town

The air was cold on his bare legs. Earl made an effort to stand but he stumbled and collapsed facedown on the asphalt again. The disappointment and self-­pity in the song got to him, piercing him with a memory of his ex-­wife somewhere back in Oklahoma. He started to cry and the crying made his nose bleed.

“Well, folks, I see by the old clock on the wall that it's quittin' time at Brakke's. Happy trails, and may the good Lord take a likin' to yuh.”

“Merle, I believe you stole that line from Roy.”

“Joe, I believe you're right. Got anything you'd like to add?”

“I don't believe I do. How 'bout you, Kash?”

“Tell 'em to drink up and go home, if they got one.”

“That's good advice, Kash, and thanks for stoppin' by and singin' with us.”

“My playsure. I think my steak walked out on me. I better go see if I can relocate it before the coyotes do.”

Gerri's house was a survivor from a time when people worked outdoors fifteen hours a day and went inside to eat and sleep. Mike came in through the dining room, which was dominated by an oilcloth-­covered table and an upright piano. A hallway opened onto a parlor room with a fieldstone fireplace. A TV screen was set into a control panel in the center of the room, surrounded by large hydro trans­formers scrounged from the local power utility. Gerri sat at the console watching phosphorescent loops and test patterns. Mike sat on a wooden box and watched her.

“I look for a break in the patterns, like a stone in water. Since Dolly left, something's been moving out there. It's small, it can hide, but I seen it here. And here. Take a look.” Mike watched the moving lines of light. Some were curved, some pointed up and down. The lines began to speed up. “Here it comes. Watch.” Mike watched without recognizing anything. “I'm locked and loaded down,” Gerri said. “I scored one hundred in rapid­ fire when I was on the cops, so don't you worry about that.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I'm a watcher. I'm on to them and they know that I know. I used to go to meetings until I discovered the brotherhood had been infiltrated. The new president announced that we had been selected by a group of ‘ascended masters.' They were going to lead us into a new golden age. All we had to do was take an oath of secrecy and give the president all our money.”

“What's an oath?” Mike asked.

“A pledge.”

“Did you pledge the oath?”

“Not on your life. Dolly Carney and I and a friend named Orlando Hopkins split off and tried to form our own group. Orlando was a nice man, but he made a bad mistake, and he paid the price.”

“What happened?”

“Orlando went out to Giant Rock on a prayer vigil to amend his sins or whatever he thought he'd done wrong. He was unarmed. All we ever found was his Bible and his flashlight, the rest was burnt.”

“You got guns in here?”

“Smith and Wesson police positive, Colt .45 by Pachmayr, .30-­.30 by Dolly, .30­06 with a nightscope, and a Marlin 12-­gauge pump. Five hundred rounds of hollow point and fifty Jap hand grenades. I'm ready.”

“Did Dolly believe in these things?”

“Sure he believed, but you know Dolly. He wanted to teach me a dirty trick with cigarettes, but I drew the line there. Now I got to hold the thin white line all by myself, with no help from Fred Early and his deputy pinheads.”

“I'll help you,” Mike said. “What do I do?”

“Keep watching the skies,” Gerri said. “Watch people, especially those known to you. Anyone can be infiltrated.”

“How do you know?”

“They look the same but act different. For instance, if someone who was a quiet person starts up talking loud and saying nothing and laughing all the time. I think that whole crowd at Brakke's has been snatched, the way they carry on. Also, people who want to boss you around and make you do things.”

“Every son of a bitch at the high school,” Mike said.

“A school is the first place they'd go. To corrupt the young.”

“Bastards never got me.”

“That's RMA for survival. RMA equals Right Mental Attitude.”

Mike waited to hear more, but Gerri went back to her TV screen and said nothing further. Mike got up and went out to the backyard and looked at the night. He found himself staring up at the sky, watching and listening.

TERRY PONCEY REALIZED
Johnny was starting to slide into panic mode. Stealing the Winchester out of the trailer was going to be a two­-man job.

“They'll kill us,” Johnny said. “Woof Daco is crazy in his face. You said we could go to Hollywood.”

“Listen to me, Johnny.
We
got news for Mr. Woof Daco, which is,
we
got a bonus coming to us, and
then
he gets his gun, and then
we
are going down to Hollywood and find Lorrie Collins, like I told you.”

“Tell about it,” said Johnny.

“We are going to get her in a room and you are going to fuck her real good.”

“That's too fast! Tell it the way I like it.”

“We ain't got time for all that. We got business to take care of. You all right now, Johnny?”

“No.”

“Sure you are. We're gonna hide that thing out where they can't never find it unless we tell them, and they won't have no other choice but to give us more money.”

“I can't walk.”

“You stay with the car. Keep the engine running. We can't start it in time if it goes out. You understand that?”

“I keep it running,” Johnny said.

“Then, I come back and you slide over and I drive. You got nothing to worry about but to keep the motor on.”

Terry figured to go in from the back of Gerri's property where the shallow arroyo ran down to the highway. There were oak trees there, and a man could get some cover. Terry had checked the place out in daylight, and he had a good sense of how far down Gerri's house was. There was no fence along the back, just the trees. It was hard going in the dark. After a while he could see the trailer in the moon­light. He crept up from behind and waited. There was blue light coming from inside the house. Nothing happened, so he went around to the front of the trailer. He had brought along a short crowbar, and he pried the door open in seconds. He got his flashlight out and looked around inside. The table was covered with motorcycle magazines and mechanical drawings. There was a duffel bag under the table. Terry pulled it out and looked inside. He saw gun parts. “The shit,” he whispered. Then he heard the sound of heavy footfalls in the dry brush. A voice cried out, “Terry, where are you?” and Johnny came staggering out of the arroyo like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The sudden movement triggered the floodlights. A voice came booming out of the trees: “I see you. Who are you?” Johnny froze in his tracks and looked up. “Johnny Poncey,” he answered. Terry grabbed the duffel bag and ran. The back door of the house opened and Gerri came out. She raised the Smith and Wesson in both hands and fired at Johnny. The big .38 roared. “Terry!” Johnny wailed, stumbling and clutching at his leg. Terry grabbed Johnny's arm and dragged him down the gravel driveway toward the front of the house. More lights went on. Gerri was following them. She fired again, and Johnny screamed. “Run, Johnny!” Terry shouted. Johnny ran, kicking his right leg out. They made it to the Ford. The motor was still turning over. Terry managed to get Johnny and the bag inside. There was a back road out. The cutout boomed as the car got moving.

Terry had worked it out so that he would get to the meeting place first and hide the gun. He hadn't figured on Johnny getting hurt. He made the turn onto the dirt road and pulled into the dump site. It was pitch dark and dead quiet. He cut the motor and the lights. Instantly, Woof Daco and Indian Charlie Smallhouse appeared, dump zombies on the prowl. Woof yanked the driver's door open. “The early birds. What's the early bird get, Charlie?”

“Give 'em a chance,” whispered the Indian.

“What's it going to be?” Woof said. Terry reached in the backseat and pulled out the bag. He threw it on the ground. Woof used his big flashlight to look, then he closed the bag and turned to go.

“Just a damn minute,” Terry said. “Johnny got shot.”

“Shot where,” Charlie said.

“Right leg,” Terry said.

“Shine a light on him,” Charlie said. He bent over Johnny, looking at one leg and then the other. “I don't see anything. What's the gag?”

“That bitch shot him. What about the rest of our money?”

“Kid, there's nothing wrong with your brother except naked fear. I would sit here for a little while and let him rest. Give us a good start. Woof wouldn't care to see you or this shit car anymore.” The Indian smiled at Terry and walked away into the dark. Terry heard the Ranchero start up, heard it pull out onto the highway.

Mike cut through the oak grove behind the donut shop. He saw police lights; he heard voices as he walked up. Two sheriff's deputies drew down on him. “Stand easy, that's my boarder,” Gerri commanded. The officers went into parade ­rest without thinking. “They hit the trailer, Mike. I think I got one of 'em in the leg, but they got away. I'm out of practice.” Her eyes told him to keep quiet.

“Lucky for you, Gerri, 'cause you been wasting a lot of my valuable time with those crank calls of yours,” Fred Early said.

“Just do your damn job, Early. I told you I been cased, but you couldn't be bothered. Finally got your lousy B & E. Happy now?” The deputy shook his head and took off in his Plymouth.

“Sorry, Mike,” Gerri said. “Your bag is gone. I guess they got the Winchester.” She put her hand on Mike's shoulder. “I told Early they took only hand tools.”