the Hot Kid (2005) (27 page)

They went inside to look around. The first thing they noticed, the shotgun was missing from the gun cabinet.

Louly said to Carl, "You think it was Jack?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Twenty-four years the house is never broken into, till Jack Belmont comes along."

"If it was Jack," Louly said, "you think it's funny his dad's holding Virgil's money?"

Chapter
23

T hat Sunday morning Walter saw this works as the place to make their camp: the pumps shut down, nobody around the derricks. They pulled casings and drilling tools out of a good-size shed and put the Cadillac inside early that morning. Later on they crept through the pecan groves and found a good place to lie hidden and watch the house.

Jack's idea was to slip up on Carl--say while he was on the porch with his dad--coming around from the side of the house. Surprise him with, "If I have to pull my weapon I'll shoot to kill." See how he liked it. Pull the .45 and shoot him. Then put the gun on the dad and tell him to bring out the money or he gets one in the head. "Then we don't have to spend time looking for it," Carl said to Walter. "The old man hands it to us and we get out of here."

"You want to shoot that marshal," Walter said, "do it some other time. I was only in a shoot-out once in my life and I pissed my pants. I saw that marshal knock off four armed men in less than five seconds. You know the best time to shoot him?"

He waited, making Jack ask, "When?"

"When he's in bed sleeping. There was an outlaw this posse was so afraid of, that's what they did, waited for him to go to sleep and shot him through the window. You ever hear of that?"

Finally in the afternoon they watched Virgil bring his Nash around to where the others were coming out on the porch and down the steps, Carl and Louly and another woman. "There he is," Walter said. "What're you waiting on?"

"How'm I gonna hit him from here with a forty-five?"

"Whyn't you bring a rifle?"

" 'Cause I want to use this."

"Move in closer."

He could sneak up to the edge of the grove, the one facing the house, he'd still be fifty or sixty yards from the car. It would take a lucky shot to hit Carl with a pistol. Jack had talked himself into using his .45, so he could recite Carl's famous line. They watched the party drive off in that Nash done up in floral upholstery. Jack recognized the car; he'd stolen that model for a job and felt like a fairy driving around in it.

They were on their feet now, Walter with his arms crossed, hands resting on his biceps that were like footballs stuffed in his sleeves.

"We going in?"

"I told you how we're doing it. Shoot Carl and put the gun on the dad."

"Then he tells the police who you are."

"You want, I'll shoot the dad too."

"And the girlfriend and that other woman?"

"We don't know where they went," Jack said, "or when they'll be home. We don't want to be in the house and get surprised."

"Jesus Christ," Walter said, "we got a good two hours. You saw Carl reach in the paper sack the woman had? He got himself some popcorn and she slapped his hand? Sunday afternoon, they went to the show. Let's quit fuckin' around and get to it."

They broke a pane in the kitchen door to enter the house; crep
t
through rooms till they knew for certain some old granny hadn't been left behind, no radio playing, and they went to work. They looked everywhere you could hide a sizeable amount of cash and places where you couldn't, attic to root cellar and in the kitchen, Jack saying he'd kept loot in a Quaker Oats box.

In a desk drawer in the living room they came across $480 rolled up in a rubber band and some silver.

Walter said, "This Creek that told you about the money--"

"My cell mate," Jack said. "He worked here and heard about it. Said he's coming back soon as he gets out."

"Said they'd be thousands of dollars?"

"How much would a millionaire put away?"

"I don't know. Four hundred and eighty dollars? I don't know who's dumber," Walter said, "me or you. My excuse--a man drives up in a Cadillac V-twelve you think he's got a pretty fair idea he knows what he's talking about. Who do you listen to? Some Creek drinks that hooch they make outta tomatoes. God damn but it smells."

"Let's think of places we might've missed," Jack said. "Like under the house."

"There isn't no under-the-house under there," Walter said. "I'm going back to the camp, I'm hungry."

They brought a bottle of whiskey with them, a case of Falstaff beer Walter put on his shoulder, the Remington shotgun from the gun cabinet--Walter liked it--and a chicken he said he'd cook on a spit. It came to Jack too late he should've taken that Winchester. He didn't think the shotgun would do him any good.

What came to annoy Jack was watching Walter cook the chicken like they were camping out. He'd made a fire, got it going good with extr
a
kindling to throw on, pushed a three-foot stick through the chicken and sat down on the ground to hold it over the fire. And kept holding it, his arm extended, rigid, locked in that position. After about ten minutes or so, Jack watched him switch the stick to his left hand and waited for Walter to flex his right arm, work the stiffness out. No, he laid the arm in his lap to rest, staring into the fire. Jack had taken a gulp of whiskey when they got back, a couple ounces worth, and took another good one now, Jack sitting on the case of beer somewhat behind Walter but more to his left. When Walter wanted a beer Jack would have to get up and hand him one. They had forgot to bring a bottle opener from the house, so Walter had to pry the cap off with his teeth, hook the bottle in the side of his bite and yank up on it. Usually it took a few tries. Walter had his hat off now. Jack stared at his head that reminded him of a block of wood: Walter at his campfire turning the chicken every few minutes from one side to the other, the bird taking on color. Thanksgiving, Jack's dad had always called the turkey "the bird."

Jack said, "There's no money put away in that house."

Walter said to the chicken, "You just realize that?"

"I should be waiting for that Creek when he gets his release--"

"Yeah . . . ?"

"And hit him in the mouth with a hammer."

"The claw side," Walter said to the chicken.

Jack took another swig of whiskey. He was disappointed, sure, but there was still the shooting of Carlos Webster to think about. Do that first. Wait for the chance to walk up and pop him. Then get his mom's car washed and take it back. No, take it to Old Mexico and sell it to some rich chilipicker. And then rob him. What he'd plan to do with Teddy's La Salle.

Come back to Tulsa and hold up the Exchange National Bank. It had a different name now he couldn't think of. Get some guys first. The Jack Belmont gang.

Walter?

Walter was a camper. And a chef, but he didn't need Walter. The chicken was about done, done enough. Give it a few more minutes. Jack brought his .45 automatic out of his waist from against the small of his back. Walter looked over. Jack pulled out his shirttail and began wiping the gun, concentrating on it, busy, Walter watching him. If he shot Walter in the head from here, Walter and the chicken could both fall in the campfire. How would he save the chicken? Jack got up and moved to the other side of the fire to face Walter, Walter watching him sit down and continue wiping down the gun. Shot from here Walter would fall back, punched by the .45 slug, taking the chicken with him or dropping it in the fire. Walter had finished off four bottles of Falstaff while he cooked the bird, spitting some blood after opening the last bottle.

He said, "What're you cleaning the gun for? You gonna go shoot him, wait till after we eat. It's done if you like it pink inside."

Jack said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"How personal?"

"Do you mind being a big Schitter?" Jack grinned. "I mean a big Schitter-er?" and laughed out loud at the dumb look on Walter's face. Jack brought the .45 out of his shirttail and shot Walter in the middle of his forehead, lunged for the chicken but missed, Walter's iron grip on the stick taking it with him as he fell flat on his back, the bird landing on his legs. Jack used Walter's teeth as a beer opener and broke off a couple of molars before he got the cap off. He took the bottle of beer, th
e
chicken, the Remington and at the last second what the hell the bottle of whiskey, back through the pecan groves to the spot with the view of the house. By the time the Nash returned with the moviegoers Jack had finished his meal, had a swig of bourbon and smoked a couple of cigarets. He'd bet $480 they saw Manhattan Melodrama, noticing it on the Orpheum marquee this morning, he and Walter coming through town. Now the good part: Watching Louly and the other woman go in the house while Carl and his old man stayed on the porch talking. Damn, he wished now he'd brought a rifle. Or taken the Winchester in the gun cabinet. The woman came out in a hurry, but wasn't anxious to interrupt Carl's dad. Finally gets his attention, tells him they'd been robbed. Now Louly comes out and they're all talking, but no one's too excited. No, what'd they lose, a case of beer, a chicken . . . Now they were all going inside. He wondered if he should've tried the shotgun? But if it was too far to do any good they'd know where he was and he'd be out of business--unless it drew Carl into the trees.

Not an hour later a car came up the drive to the porch, a Ford, one he recognized. He ought to, he'd stolen it twice. They were inside straightening up. Carl told about the break-in while they were at the show, Louly sounding sure it was Jack. "He came looking for Carl and took a case of beer, a shotgun and a chicken."

Tony said, "How do you know it was Jack?"

"He called the marshals," Carl said, "to locate me and they told him I was here."

"How did they know it was Jack?"

"Evelyn told everybody that called where I was and recorded it. They all identified themselves but Jack. I listened and recognized his voice."

"So he'll try to sneak up on you," Tony said, "and you're not supposed to know he's here. What if he has a gang with him?"

"They only took one chicken out of the icebox," Carl said, "Narcissa hadn't cut up yet. But can you see Jack cooking it, like he's camping out?"

Tony looked off through the open doorway toward the pecan grove, the one closest to the house, beyond the cleared area where the drive came in, his car standing with its front end at the porch. He said, "I better move my car."

Carl said, "Take the key out this time."

Tony left his Ford around by the garage. He came back to the porch, most of it in deep shade. He saw Carl at a window and heard Virgil coming in the front room saying, "The son of a bitch--I hadn't noticed--took a bottle of bourbon."

Carl said, "I hope he drinks it before he starts something."

Tony came inside. He said to Virgil, "You haven't done your harvest yet, have you?"

"We have one it'll be going on Christmas, and that's if it rains. We had drought, spring through summer, as bad as I've seen."

"But Jack could be hiding in there, waiting for a shot?"

"In there with the squirrels and the crows, all of 'em eating pe-cans dried up and dropped from the trees. That grove facing the house, you can see is denser than the rest? Those are old babies, the first ones I planted. See, then I learned these trees need sunshine and space for it.

I started out I must've planted forty, fifty trees to the acre instead of twenty to thirty. That's how come those trees across the drive you can't even see through 'em, and they're sort of in rows. I have to get Preston Raincrow in there, clear out the brush, but I have to wait for him to get over his heat prostration. I said to him, I never heard of a Cherokee getting heat prostration. Preston's Narcissa's daddy. Some of my groves have as few as ten trees the acre. They're up eighty to a hunnert feet and aren't as ugly as these here, all gnarly." "No," Tony said, "he wouldn't have any trouble hiding in there."

"He'd still need a rifle," Virgil said.

"How far to the trees?"

"Fifty-three yards," Virgil said, "a hunnert and fifty-nine feet. You'd be doing good to hit the house with a pistol."

"How come you're so sure of the distance?"

"I was thinking of putting in a horseshoe court one time."

"Louly said he swiped a shotgun?"

"By the time the buckshot reaches the porch," Virgil said, "I see it splatter on the steps. A shot might sting you, but it won't hurt much."

Tony looked at Carl.

"Could you hit him from here, he's standing at the edge of the trees?"

"I'll hit him four out of five times," Carl said, "if my dad lets me use his thirty-eight still has a front sight on it. It's like mine, on a forty-five frame. But I can't say where I'll hit him. I'd have to move in closer."

"While he's shooting at you?" Tony said. "That's the most courageous thing a man can do, walking into withering gunfire to take out his opponent."

Virgil said, "Where'd you read that?"

"I wrote it," Tony said, and looked at Carl again. "Where would you want to hit him?"

"You have your notebook on you?"

"Don't worry, I'll remember."

"One in the arm or shoulder," Carl said, "so he'll drop his weapon, and one in the leg to put him down."

"Why're you so careful?"

"I don't want to kill him," Carl said.