| General Fiction posted April 4, 2024 | Chapters: |
...6 7 -8- 9... 
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The best laid plans...
A chapter in the book Right in the Eye
Right in the Eye, ch 8
by Wayne Fowler
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
In the last part Slim fully disclosed to Mary and learned that she was his LouAnne’s great granddaughter.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A couple weeks later, while I was waitin’ for Mary to finish fixin’ supper, I heard a diesel rig pull up to the motel parking lot. I could see that it was the same one as preceded Mary’s fat lip. I fetched the 30-30 that I’d been able to buy with Mary’s signature and identification, gettin’ to one of the front yard lawn chairs before he arrived.
“Who’re you?” he demanded. “You think you’re gonna shoot me?” He acted like he thought that would never happen. “Try it. I’ll wrap it around yer head, shot or not.”
I cocked it, ejecting the round that was already chambered. I knew that would happen, but did it for effect anyway. “You haven’t done anything justifyin’ shootin’ you yet,” I said, “But that truck out there has made me mad. I don’t mind blastin’ those tires from here, or from across the street after I leave. And that front windshield puts off a glare I don’t cotton to. I figure by then you’ll have done somethin’ to make me mad at your kneecaps, both of ‘em. I sounded dead serious, even to myself. I guess to him, too, since he turned and walked away.
An hour and a half later I felt the urge to use the bathroom. I once saw a feller that got hung whose bowels emptied during, or just after death. Folks said that was common. Not wantin’ that to happen to me in Mary’s house, I thought that I better take care of that the sooner the better. My timing couldn’t have been worse. Jackson, that was what Mary called him, was in the house when I came out. He was between me an’ the rifle. I didn’t say anything, just set my jaw, thinkin’ about what he’d do after takin’ care of me, him outweighin’ me by eighty pounds and a half foot taller.
He was quick, too. Next thing I knew I was bein’ choked around the neck, fixin’ to pass out. I was wantin’ to gouge his eyes out, but couldn’t get around his thick arms. I tried to kick at his groin, but he just turned a little bit. I would slide to the floor if he’d let me. The slobber comin’ out of his mouth was the last thing my eye saw. Then there was release. I tried to suck in air, but was havin’ a hard time at it. Mary was sitting right on top of Jackson’s head tryin’ to coax air into me. She left and came back with a wet wash rag for my face. There was blood on her hands. Finally, my lungs filled up and I could stand. Jackson lay there in a heap, one bloody spot in the middle of his back and a butcher knife buried to the hilt in another spot where I figure his heart would be.
We kissed, Mary and I, she offering her whole self to me, her arms wrapped around my chest, under my arms.
“No, Slim. We tell it just like it happened and let the chips fall.” She was resolute. I was of a mind to take the blame. Declare that we fought and I stabbed him, twice. Mary wouldn’t hear of it. “And spend the rest of your life in another institution?” I’ll admit, that didn’t sound too appealing.
Turned out the law, a county deputy sheriff showing up first, knew all about ol’ Jackson and his antics. Mary’s bruisin’ tracked pretty regular with Jackson’s visits. People talk. ‘Course the deputy wasn’t the last word on the matter, but that’s how we hoped it would work out in the end – self-defense and the defense of another. Mary saved my life. She said I saved hers. Either way …
Trouble was, even though everybody who came in to investigate – starting from the first deputy to the sheriff, the investigator, the prosecutor, even the coroner – every one of them wanted not just to know who I was, but wanted identification. All I had was a Social Security card. Of course, they wanted to know how I could get that without an I.D.
The next day the deputy came for me to take me to the county investigator’s office in Durango for some questions. I took my Social Security card.
Mary and I talked it through all night long startin’ as soon as the last one left, followin’ Jackson’s body out the door. I again allowed that I could take the blame, but I’ll admit, with the evidence pointin’ to Mary, conflicting with that only confused a pretty simple thing. “The truth was always better,” Mary had said. I could just light out. I knew the hills, where there was water and shacks. No law said I had to hang around. “And just come down every few days to hold my hand? Like you did LouAnne?” Mary’s argument hurt.
“Slim, they already ran your name through the state, prob’ly called the FBI. It’ll get to Denver by tomorrow, sure.”
“I could leave the state,” I said. It sounded about as lame to me as her.
“Why? And your Bronco isn’t tagged. You’d get pulled over wherever you went. I’m sorry, Slim. I should have thought it through. I guess I was living a fantasy, somehow thinking that Jackson would just move on.”
I hugged her. “Mary,” I whispered into her ear, “Ninety years on my back is a small price to pay for helpin’ get him out of your life. Naw. We’ll play it out. The truth, just like you said.”
Then I was in Durango with Detective Albion, bein’ inquisited.
“Mister Goldman, why don’t you tell us your real name? Starting with your first name so we can at least be on more friendly terms here.”
The investigator was one that came to Mary’s and saw it all laid out. He seemed to accept the facts as we told ‘em, seein’ for himself how it was. I was a little too slow, I guess, so he went to talkin’ again. There in Durango he was a bit different.
“Have you had a stroke, Slim? Would you like some water, or anything?”
Too slow again. Guess he was used to people poppin’ off right quick.
“See, way I see it, Marian might have hired you to sit with her … wait for Jackson to show up. Heck, everybody in Cerrillos knew he was beating and using her. She bought the gun after you showed up. You stayed in the motel for a bit for respectability’s sake, then moved into her house. Waitin’ for Jackson. Ralph was minding the motel when Jackson drove up. Ralph said he’d never before left out again after only a few minutes. Then he saw Jackson come back on foot, going around back to Marian’s. Only you messed up and didn't get to the rifle in time.
“See, to an impartial eye, that’s the makings of murder-for-hire. A stranger shows up. And a man is killed.”
I fair jumped outta my seat.
“Another thing: you don’t add up. You are a mystery. And I don’t like mysteries. Maybe in a book, but around here, I wanna know what’s goin’ on, and who’s doin’ it.
“Slim,” he said, real stern like. “That murder-for-hire thing is alive only because I don’t know who you are. See, you put the question to the whole thing. Your name isn’t Slim. We both know that. And no other I.D. but a card that can be doped? Come on, Slim. Now, what’s your name?”
“Herschell Diddleknopper.” I lowered my head in shame, not knowin’ what was next.
He laughed right out loud. I raised my head to share the chuckle.
“Now, Slim, you’ve gone and made it worse. How ‘bout we cool you to talking temperature with a few days in our nice little window-bar motel? I can keep you here until The Millionaire comes with a Philadelphia lawyer. You know, the tax-free million dollars show?
“Look, Herschell, Slim. We’re good with what happened yesterday. We are. But we can’t let someone walk who might be Palladin, off to take his gun and travel to another job. You can understand that, right?
“Now. Your name.” He repositioned his pencil in his hand, ready to write.
“Sir, I’ve been Slim since before I could talk. Only way I knew my real front name was when a school teacher sent me home to learn it. I can’t even spell it. Got shot right in the eye when I was thirty-five.” I held back the year, hopin’ we wouldn’t have to get that far into my tale and go and make things even worse.
“You can take me an’ exeray my head an’ see the slug still in there. I went to Cerrillos for old times’ sake. Met Mary and, well … we hit it off. That’s the whole shebang.”
He dropped his pencil and leaned back, borin’ into my good eye.
Finally, he picked up his pencil, leaned in, pointin’ it at me. “Okay, Slim. Okay. We got something to run with, things we can check on. But tell me. Why didn’t you register your vehicle? Why don’t you have a driver’s license? Why did you have Marian buy the rifle in her name? And why do you use the name Goldman?
“Nope. You’re gonna have a little time to get your story straight.”
He left the room, callin’ out somebody’s name to come get me. He wasn’t gonna much like my answers to those questions anyway.
A couple hours into my drunk-tank stay, a jailer came for me to spell Diddleknopper best I knew, take my picture, and get my fingerprints. I started lookin’ for a way to bust out. That was before noon on a Thursd’y. Frid’y just after my evenin’ gruel, some kinda slop worse’n they fed me durin’ the Great Depression years, Detective Albion came for me. He was the one workin’ the case, the one thought my name was so funny. Made a big deal about wantin’ ta know everything happened in his district.
In the last part Slim fully disclosed to Mary and learned that she was his LouAnne’s great granddaughter.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A couple weeks later, while I was waitin’ for Mary to finish fixin’ supper, I heard a diesel rig pull up to the motel parking lot. I could see that it was the same one as preceded Mary’s fat lip. I fetched the 30-30 that I’d been able to buy with Mary’s signature and identification, gettin’ to one of the front yard lawn chairs before he arrived.
“Who’re you?” he demanded. “You think you’re gonna shoot me?” He acted like he thought that would never happen. “Try it. I’ll wrap it around yer head, shot or not.”
I cocked it, ejecting the round that was already chambered. I knew that would happen, but did it for effect anyway. “You haven’t done anything justifyin’ shootin’ you yet,” I said, “But that truck out there has made me mad. I don’t mind blastin’ those tires from here, or from across the street after I leave. And that front windshield puts off a glare I don’t cotton to. I figure by then you’ll have done somethin’ to make me mad at your kneecaps, both of ‘em. I sounded dead serious, even to myself. I guess to him, too, since he turned and walked away.
An hour and a half later I felt the urge to use the bathroom. I once saw a feller that got hung whose bowels emptied during, or just after death. Folks said that was common. Not wantin’ that to happen to me in Mary’s house, I thought that I better take care of that the sooner the better. My timing couldn’t have been worse. Jackson, that was what Mary called him, was in the house when I came out. He was between me an’ the rifle. I didn’t say anything, just set my jaw, thinkin’ about what he’d do after takin’ care of me, him outweighin’ me by eighty pounds and a half foot taller.
He was quick, too. Next thing I knew I was bein’ choked around the neck, fixin’ to pass out. I was wantin’ to gouge his eyes out, but couldn’t get around his thick arms. I tried to kick at his groin, but he just turned a little bit. I would slide to the floor if he’d let me. The slobber comin’ out of his mouth was the last thing my eye saw. Then there was release. I tried to suck in air, but was havin’ a hard time at it. Mary was sitting right on top of Jackson’s head tryin’ to coax air into me. She left and came back with a wet wash rag for my face. There was blood on her hands. Finally, my lungs filled up and I could stand. Jackson lay there in a heap, one bloody spot in the middle of his back and a butcher knife buried to the hilt in another spot where I figure his heart would be.
We kissed, Mary and I, she offering her whole self to me, her arms wrapped around my chest, under my arms.
“No, Slim. We tell it just like it happened and let the chips fall.” She was resolute. I was of a mind to take the blame. Declare that we fought and I stabbed him, twice. Mary wouldn’t hear of it. “And spend the rest of your life in another institution?” I’ll admit, that didn’t sound too appealing.
Turned out the law, a county deputy sheriff showing up first, knew all about ol’ Jackson and his antics. Mary’s bruisin’ tracked pretty regular with Jackson’s visits. People talk. ‘Course the deputy wasn’t the last word on the matter, but that’s how we hoped it would work out in the end – self-defense and the defense of another. Mary saved my life. She said I saved hers. Either way …
Trouble was, even though everybody who came in to investigate – starting from the first deputy to the sheriff, the investigator, the prosecutor, even the coroner – every one of them wanted not just to know who I was, but wanted identification. All I had was a Social Security card. Of course, they wanted to know how I could get that without an I.D.
The next day the deputy came for me to take me to the county investigator’s office in Durango for some questions. I took my Social Security card.
Mary and I talked it through all night long startin’ as soon as the last one left, followin’ Jackson’s body out the door. I again allowed that I could take the blame, but I’ll admit, with the evidence pointin’ to Mary, conflicting with that only confused a pretty simple thing. “The truth was always better,” Mary had said. I could just light out. I knew the hills, where there was water and shacks. No law said I had to hang around. “And just come down every few days to hold my hand? Like you did LouAnne?” Mary’s argument hurt.
“Slim, they already ran your name through the state, prob’ly called the FBI. It’ll get to Denver by tomorrow, sure.”
“I could leave the state,” I said. It sounded about as lame to me as her.
“Why? And your Bronco isn’t tagged. You’d get pulled over wherever you went. I’m sorry, Slim. I should have thought it through. I guess I was living a fantasy, somehow thinking that Jackson would just move on.”
I hugged her. “Mary,” I whispered into her ear, “Ninety years on my back is a small price to pay for helpin’ get him out of your life. Naw. We’ll play it out. The truth, just like you said.”
Then I was in Durango with Detective Albion, bein’ inquisited.
“Mister Goldman, why don’t you tell us your real name? Starting with your first name so we can at least be on more friendly terms here.”
The investigator was one that came to Mary’s and saw it all laid out. He seemed to accept the facts as we told ‘em, seein’ for himself how it was. I was a little too slow, I guess, so he went to talkin’ again. There in Durango he was a bit different.
“Have you had a stroke, Slim? Would you like some water, or anything?”
Too slow again. Guess he was used to people poppin’ off right quick.
“See, way I see it, Marian might have hired you to sit with her … wait for Jackson to show up. Heck, everybody in Cerrillos knew he was beating and using her. She bought the gun after you showed up. You stayed in the motel for a bit for respectability’s sake, then moved into her house. Waitin’ for Jackson. Ralph was minding the motel when Jackson drove up. Ralph said he’d never before left out again after only a few minutes. Then he saw Jackson come back on foot, going around back to Marian’s. Only you messed up and didn't get to the rifle in time.
“See, to an impartial eye, that’s the makings of murder-for-hire. A stranger shows up. And a man is killed.”
I fair jumped outta my seat.
“Another thing: you don’t add up. You are a mystery. And I don’t like mysteries. Maybe in a book, but around here, I wanna know what’s goin’ on, and who’s doin’ it.
“Slim,” he said, real stern like. “That murder-for-hire thing is alive only because I don’t know who you are. See, you put the question to the whole thing. Your name isn’t Slim. We both know that. And no other I.D. but a card that can be doped? Come on, Slim. Now, what’s your name?”
“Herschell Diddleknopper.” I lowered my head in shame, not knowin’ what was next.
He laughed right out loud. I raised my head to share the chuckle.
“Now, Slim, you’ve gone and made it worse. How ‘bout we cool you to talking temperature with a few days in our nice little window-bar motel? I can keep you here until The Millionaire comes with a Philadelphia lawyer. You know, the tax-free million dollars show?
“Look, Herschell, Slim. We’re good with what happened yesterday. We are. But we can’t let someone walk who might be Palladin, off to take his gun and travel to another job. You can understand that, right?
“Now. Your name.” He repositioned his pencil in his hand, ready to write.
“Sir, I’ve been Slim since before I could talk. Only way I knew my real front name was when a school teacher sent me home to learn it. I can’t even spell it. Got shot right in the eye when I was thirty-five.” I held back the year, hopin’ we wouldn’t have to get that far into my tale and go and make things even worse.
“You can take me an’ exeray my head an’ see the slug still in there. I went to Cerrillos for old times’ sake. Met Mary and, well … we hit it off. That’s the whole shebang.”
He dropped his pencil and leaned back, borin’ into my good eye.
Finally, he picked up his pencil, leaned in, pointin’ it at me. “Okay, Slim. Okay. We got something to run with, things we can check on. But tell me. Why didn’t you register your vehicle? Why don’t you have a driver’s license? Why did you have Marian buy the rifle in her name? And why do you use the name Goldman?
“Nope. You’re gonna have a little time to get your story straight.”
He left the room, callin’ out somebody’s name to come get me. He wasn’t gonna much like my answers to those questions anyway.
A couple hours into my drunk-tank stay, a jailer came for me to spell Diddleknopper best I knew, take my picture, and get my fingerprints. I started lookin’ for a way to bust out. That was before noon on a Thursd’y. Frid’y just after my evenin’ gruel, some kinda slop worse’n they fed me durin’ the Great Depression years, Detective Albion came for me. He was the one workin’ the case, the one thought my name was so funny. Made a big deal about wantin’ ta know everything happened in his district.
Slim Goldman (Herschell Diddleknopper): miner who Ben Persons rescued in 1886
Ben Persons: young man with a calling from God
LouAnne: Saloon girl that Slim loved/idolized.
Marian (Mary) Cerrillos motel owner, LouAnne's great granddaughter
Jackson: Mary's ex-husband
Detective Albion: Colorado state investigator
Hang on, we'll get to Ben Paul soon.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Ben Persons: young man with a calling from God
LouAnne: Saloon girl that Slim loved/idolized.
Marian (Mary) Cerrillos motel owner, LouAnne's great granddaughter
Jackson: Mary's ex-husband
Detective Albion: Colorado state investigator
Hang on, we'll get to Ben Paul soon.
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