Red Highway (3 page)

Garver stood facing the hostage, his hands clasped behind his back. The silver smoking jacket he wore over a black shirt and matching trousers looked suspiciously like a uniform. “Do you know who wrote the words I just quoted for your benefit?”

Virgil shook his head sullenly. The old bastard was playing this one to the limit.

Garver smiled sardonically. “A man by the name of Karl Von Clausewitz, nearly a century ago. He was writing about war. But I think his ideas hold true in this instance. Make him sit.”

The order was directed at the two men beside Virgil, who reacted instantly. The brute swung a cane chair from across the room one-handed and thrust it behind Virgil's legs, just as Ferret Face slammed the youth in the chest with both palms, folding him roughly into the seat.

“Clausewitz also tells us that any successful operation demands that we begin with a firm base. Any good architect will tell you that the strength of a base depends upon the strength of each of its components.” The colonel looked down at Virgil, who was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair. From his new vantage point, the hostage could see Garver's eyes for the first time. They were flat and expressionless. It was the mouth, the grim, hard mouth, that told the tale. “The object of this particular encounter,” Garver went on, “is to remove an unstable brick from an otherwise sturdy foundation.”

“This is what we found on him, Colonel.” The weasely Brooklyn hood handed the wad of bills Virgil had taken from the bar to the bootlegger. He took them and counted them swiftly. “Seventy dollars.”

Virgil glanced up at the small man. His ferret face betrayed no emotion, neither guilt nor embarassment. Virgil wondered if the brute had come in for any share of the twenty-dollar cut. Not, he decided, if the weasel had held on to the sum from the beginning.

Garver bent and shoved the crumpled bills into the pocket of Virgil's flannel shirt. “You earned them,” he said, straightening. “You keep them.” The colonel clasped his hands behind his back once again, spreading his feet apart. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Virgil hesitated. The whole damn thing was being run like a court-martial. He set his jaw and shook his head.

“I see.” Colonel Garver regarded the youth for a moment, his eyes like dead celluloid discs. When he spoke again, the Missouri had crept back into his voice. “Break his legs.”

The brute bent down over the back of Virgil's chair and pinned his arms behind him. Panic exploded in every part of Virgil's body as the foreign-looking youth left his station against the wall and crossed toward the chair. The ferret slid a hassock in front of the chair, picked up Virgil's right leg, and set it on the cushioned top.

The prisoner fought like a madman, struggling to free himself from the brute's grip. He twisted in the chair, kicked at the ferret, but it was no use. The arms that held him refused to let go. The small thug was sitting on his ankle, pinning it painfully to the stool. The olive-complexioned youth lifted his foot above Virgil's outstretched leg and took aim. Virgil grunted, cursed, and bit his lip, but his captors held him stationary. The foot came down with an ear-splitting crack.

Blue-hot lights popped and flashed before his eyes. Somebody was screaming and it sounded like his voice. His leg, a thing aflame, was lying on the floor, yet he could feel his foot still resting on the hassock. He decided he was going mad. He felt his other leg being set upon the stool. This time he didn't hear the crack. He had lost consciousness.

He came to strangely. The layers of unconsciousness shattered one by one as he broke to the surface, snapping and popping into thousands of tiny pieces, to be swept away as the next layer presented itself. He broke through, began slipping, and broke through again, this time for good. The first thing he thought about was the state of his legs. They felt oldly stiff and straight, stretched out before him. Without opening his eyes, he felt for the tight linen knot of the bandage. He let out his breath in relief. Although the first aid did nothing to suppress the pounding pain he felt in both limbs, it comforted him to know that they had been taken care of.

The floor was in motion beneath him. He ran his fingers over the rippled surface, put it together with the monotonous rumbling in his ears, and deduced that he was in a moving automobile. He opened his eyes a slit. Above him, trees, sky, and reddening clouds were sliding past the tall windows of the Saxon Six. The ribbed cloth top quivered and buckled with each bump. The back window squeaked. He was lying on the floor between the front and back seats. Somebody was sitting in the back seat, his face and upper torso obscured in the gathering darkness. His shoes, the well-buffed toes of which rested an inch in front of Virgil's face were two-toned, and it was by noting this, together with the badly creased blue trouser cuffs that hung over the shoes, that the prisoner knew he was being attended by the wiry, ferret-faced gangster.

One of the shoes nudged him in the chest, roughly. “Snap to, hayseed,” came a voice from above him. “I seen your eyes open.”

Virgil grunted, raising himself slightly on his elbows. “Where are we?”

“Well, now, I just knew you were going to ask me that question.” The unpleasant edge was still present in his voice.

“So?” Virgil squinted into the rays of the setting sun.

“You'll see when we get there,” retorted the gangster, sneeringly. “We're gonna find you a place to stay. Ain't that nice?”

Virgil gathered up enough saliva and shot it in the direction of the gangster's voice. It hit his knee and rolled down the leg of his wrinkled trousers. Ferret Face made an exclamation of rage and kicked Virgil in the face. The sole of his two-toned shoe struck his chin, but Virgil turned his head away just at the right time so that it did little more than scuff his cheek. He lowered himself back to the floor and resolved to remain silent for the rest of his journey.

“Yessir,” continued the weasley thug, who evidently believed he had caused Virgil some harm, “you're gonna be real happy with your new accommodations. I guarantee it.” He wiped off his trouser leg with a silk handkerchief.

A voice, which Virgil identified as that of the brute, although he had never heard it, drifted over the back seat. “Missouri comin' up.”

The crippled prisoner was puzzled. Had he said “Missouri” or “misery?” He shook his head, clearing it of all speculation. He'd find out, one way or another, what was going on. He feigned unconsciousness and allowed the rocking motion of the car to lull him into a state of semi-trance.

A white light burst in his face and remained. Virgil raised his head, blinking and shielding his eyes from the blinding glare. Somebody was waving a flashlight in his face.

“He don't look so good. You reckon he'll make it to trial?” A strange voice, low and gravelly, like coal sliding down a metal chute.

“He'll make it,” sneered the ferret. “He's tougher'n he looks.”

Virgil was dragged out of the car, two hands supporting his legs while another held him around the waist. He cleared the running board and slammed down on his back on hard concrete, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

It was dark outside. Virgil could just barely make out the tall buildings by their lighted windows, stretching high into the moonless sky. Now and then a horn tooted some distance away, and the swish of tires on pavement was unmistakable. A city, then. A big one, judging by the height of the buildings. But which one?

Somebody got behind him and lifted him to his feet. He was being supported on the shoulders of two men; the brute on his left and a strange man in a blue uniform on his right. They helped him up a set of concrete steps and through the door of a brightly lit building.

It was a big barn of a room, illuminated by six rows of circular lights running vertically along the ceiling from the door to the opposite wall. The old-fashioned wooden benches along the right wall were deserted, which wasn't surprising, since the big clock on the wall above them read 12:30. A heavy wooden counter stretched across the back of the room, with a stout, balding man in uniform standing behind it. A few more uniformed men were scattered about the room, most of them watching the strange procession Virgil and his entourage made as they approached the counter.

Once they had stopped, the man in uniform who had been supporting Virgil on his right, left him to the brute's care then circled the counter.

Virgil could now see the man clearly. He was tall, with a long, rugged face, tanned to a hue like old leather, with crisp blue eyes that stared from beneath the shiny black bill of his cap. Only the lines around his eyes and mouth, and the silver in his temples dared to give some idea of the man's real age. He seemed to be pointedly ignoring Virgil's injury, a fact that was not lost on the newcomer, who knew something of Nelson Garver's influence with the police. The man nodded to the balding sergeant, who flipped open a long flat book on the counter and placed the point of a fountain pen against the creamy page.

“What's your name, son?” growled the older man in his rough voice.

Somebody, probably the ferret, dug Virgil in the back. “Ballard. Virgil Ballard.”

The sergeant jotted this down.

“Age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Ever been arrested before?”

“Never.”

The old man rubbed the side of his nose with a tanned finger. “Empty your pockets, son.”

After a moment's hesitation, Virgil obeyed, reaching into his pants pockets and placing the contents on the counter. Out of his left came his pocket knife, some change, and the key to the Mack truck he had left in Southwest City. He felt for his right pocket—and felt a chill creep through his system. The lump was unmistakable. He stole a sideways glance at the brute who was helping support him, but he seemed to be watching the proceedings disinterestedly. Virgil reached into his right pocket, drew out the ugly black revolver that had been taken away from him by Ferret Face earlier, and placed it on the counter.

The old policeman's face grew stern. He leaned across the counter, slid the gun out of Virgil's reach, and, with the other hand, slipped the seventy dollars from the youth's shirt pocket and laid the bills side by side on the counter's wooden top. He signaled to a pair of policemen standing near a corner, and they came over to support Virgil. The brute stepped aside, relinquishing his burden. Virgil's weight came down on his legs for an instant, and white-hot pain drove straight up his spine. He winced in agony.

“You're in a lot of trouble, son,” said the old man almost paternally. “A bartender in Southwest City has filed a charge that you held him up and took the money from his cash register.” He indicated the bills spread out before him. “An armed robbery charge like this will get you sent up, you know that?”

Virgil remembered the bartender, with his 150 jugs of Oklahoma White Lightning, bought at a bargain, not to mention the truck that Virgil had given him. He shook his head, and, despite his pain, smiled ruefully. It was all so beautiful.

The old policeman read this reaction as belligerence on Virgil's part. “You needn't smile, son. Don't think your age is going to make any difference with the authorities here in Joplin. You're under arrest.” He signaled once more to the policemen at Virgil's sides, who supported him between them and headed for the door at the back of the station. It was open, and Virgil could see a row of jail cells beyond the opening. He shook his head again, and smiled in spite of himself. The colonel must have been hell on the battlefield.

The powerful locomotive charged down the narrow track at a breakneck pace, its huge pistons chuffing and clanging like a dozen piledrivers. Three cars back, Virgil Ballard shifted his weight on the hot leather seat and turned to stare morosely out the discolored window. He watched the lush vegetation of the bluffs along the Missouri River hurtle past, studied the murky water as it meandered in the direction of Jefferson City. He fingered the rubber pads on the tops of his crutches, considering the possible merits of laying one of them across the skull of the slack-faced detective in the next seat. It would be a simple matter to obtain the key to the handcuff on his right wrist once the cop was out. But his plans were shattered when his eyes fell on the ugly plaster casts that encased his legs. The thought of jumping the train and vaulting across the open fields on crutches sickened him. Things just weren't breakmg right.

Missouri State Penitentiary. According to the senile old bastard of a judge who had presided over his case in Joplin, that was to be his home for the next five years. Three, with good behavior. What did he know about prison? Bars. Walls. Guards. Everything else was a mystery to him. Certainly it was going to be a big change from the broad expanses of wilderness he'd been accustomed to wandering all his life. And what of Hazel?

Pretty, black-haired Hazel. He'd known her since they were both toddlers, but how much did he really know about her? It had always been assumed between them that one day they'd be married. How would prison affect those plans? Would she still be waiting for him when he got out? And even if she were, would he still want her? His mind was a jumble of questions, and every one of them had something to do with Hazel.

He turned his head away from the window and studied the dusty floor between his stiffened legs. Five years. On a lousy bum rap. He would just have to make the best of it.

Chapter Three

“Virgil Ballard! Well, I'll be damned!” The short, broad-shouldered con held out a callused hand as Virgil entered the cell. “How are ya, kid?”

Virgil transferred the wooden cane to his left hand and grasped the one extended him. The cell door clanged shut behind him. “Ralph!” he exclaimed happily. “Ralph Moss! I haven't seen you since we ran moonshine together.”

“Two years ago,” beamed the older man.

“I thought you was too smart to end up here.”