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Jeronimo Takes Some Hair
By Lawrence J Urban
Part Two
continued from Part One of this story
That was on Monday.
Today is Tuesday, almost noon, and I am standing in the parking lot of the Arctic Bar and Grill, sun blasting down from a cloudless sky, feet sizzling on black asphalt, facing this skinny, dirty, little wreck of a man who is waving a knife at me, demanding my money.
Now it is true it is not much of a knife, my mother used to peel potatoes with one just like it, but there is some kind of crud on the blade that I do not want entering my bloodstream. I am thinking about reasoning with him, but, I am not in a very good mood. I have two hundred dollars left after the poker game yesterday and it does not weigh nearly as much as five hundred. This bothers me, but not nearly as much as the fact that I had my finger nailed to the wall on my date. You heard it right. Finger nailed to the wall.
It turned out Zeena was married to Herman Lovato, a somewhat shady businessman who manages to bridge the gap between the honest folks and the more nefarious of our citizens. Short version? Zeena and I are in this bar when Herman and a serious thug named Clang-Clang, who is five foot seven inches, two hundred and seventy pounds of anger, enter. There is a very brief scuffle. The end result being that Herman rapped me on the head with a beautiful, pearl handled, engraved, nickle-plated revolver. They took me to another bar that Herman owns. Clang-Clang held my hand down on the table. Herman took that gun, placed the barrel on my pointer finger and shot it off. I managed to watch him nail it to the wall above the cash register before I lost consciousness.
Now I have this big bandage my left hand. Looks like I am holding a softball. I tried to sleep after leaving the hospital, but there was no way. Not only did Herman shoot off a finger, but he broke the middle one in his haste to get off the shot. I knew he was shooting much to quickly. It was hurting so bad this morning I had to drink a half pint of peach brandy and swallow four painkillers before breakfast.
I stopped by the office before coming out to the street and grabbed a bottle of the brandy. I had three left and a six pack of Tecate, enough to last for a couple more days. I caught the bus up Central and got off about a block from the war zone. My hand throbbed like a boom box in the back of a low-rider, so I decided to stop in the Arctic for what the sign in the window said was the "coldest beer in town". It was about eleven AM and the place had maybe ten people inside. The air conditioner felt good and the beer may very well have been the coldest in town. I asked the bartender if he had ever heard of Poppy Fields. Most of the clientele seated at the bar leaned in to listen to what I had to say. None of them had heard of her. I peeled a ten off my roll with my good hand and went back outside. A kid seated a couple stools from me got up at the same time and followed me out into the heat.
"Hey," he says. I stop to wait. "I heard you asking about Poppy." he mumbles. His breath reeks of unbrushed teeth and I take a step backward. He wears a dirty, sweat- stained denim shirt over an equally awful pair of torn sweat pants, mismatched shoes and no socks
7 " I know Poppy," he says. "She in some kind of trouble? She’s a friend of mine. She was nice to me."
"Naa," I say, "she’s not in trouble. Some guy is looking for her, that’s all. I think it could be her boyfriend." The kid stares down at the pavement and nods his shaven head. I notice numerous scabs and scratches, some of them infected. "You know where she is?"
"She was always nice to me. She gave me food and money and stuff."
"She gave you money?"
Scabhead nods.
"Where did she work?"
"Work?" Scabhead shakes his head like he doesn’t understand the term. "She never worked no place."
"Where did she get her money then?" I ask. "Was she a hooker? Sell drugs?"
"Hooker?" He thinks about that for a while. "She weren’t no hooker. No dealer neither." He shrugs. "She just had money."
"Where is she now?" I ask.
"She disappeared a couple months ago." He rubs his left arm and slumps against the wall, the heat sapping his strength. "It was weird," he whispers. "These serious dudes in suits showed up one day and took her away." He shows me some yellow teeth in what passes for a smile and chuckles. "It was like an alien abduction. You know?"
I take out my roll of bills and pull a twenty out of it with my teeth. I put the money away and hand him the bill. He pushes it somewhere into his sweatpants and points at my hand.
"That’s messed up, dude." Then the dirty knife comes out. "You better give me the rest of that money," he says. 8
I glance around the area and, except for a few cars passing by, we are alone. He takes a step forward and I step back.
After all the crap I had been through, now I got this guy with the knife. You can see how I might be running out of patience. And, what makes it worse was the twenty I had just given him for some crappy information because I felt sorry for him. Chaco told me I have too big a heart.
"I gave you twenty, kid. Let it go."
His voice acquires a sharper edge and he says, "I said give me the money, asshole!"
"I’m twice your size, boy. You better think about this."
He jabs the knife at me without a lot of conviction, but I am past the point of tolerating him any longer.
I raise my right knee to my chest, twist to the left and fire the upraised foot at the man’s throat. Compassion changes my aim at the last minute and I kick him in the mouth, breaking some teeth and sending him crashing into the wall, knocking him senseless instead of killing him. Maybe I do have too big a heart. I think about retrieving my twenty, but do not relish the idea of going through those clothes to find it.
Next stop was the address Fallis had given me. It is a crappy four-plex on a crappy street. Too hot to stay inside, every doorway has a collection of people sitting around them. Cicadas buzz in the trees.
I ask a group of two women and three men if they have lived there long. None of them answer. They look at me with suspicion and I try a friendlier face out on them.
"Anybody here ever heard of a girl named Poppy Fields?"
A man dressed in cutoff shorts and white tank top, unshaven and sunburned, points in my direction. "What happened to your hand, bro?" His English is broken and he grins, showing me where his teeth are missing on the right side of his mouth.
"I got shot," I tell him.
He laughs and raises his shirt showing me an oozing bandage, down low, on his left side. "Me too," he says.
One of the women, her black hair tied tied back into a bun with a red ribbon, says, "Put your shirt down, Carlos," and in the same breath murmurs, "I knew her."
"Do you know where she is?" I ask.
She sticks out her bottom lip and shakes her head. "Nah, she wasn’t made for this place. She left a couple weeks ago."
"Weeks?" I say.
"Maybe it was a couple months, I don’t remember."
Another of the men, younger and leaner, stands up and moves behind me to my right. The third man, eyes unfocused, walks to my left.
The first guy, the one with the bullet hole, stands up in front of me.
"You got any money, bro?" he asks softly. "I could use a loan." This gets a chuckle out of the one with the unfocused eyes. "I’ll pay you back, bro. I promise."
"I only have two hundred dollars," I tell him. The men exchange looks like they don’t understand what I said.
"What is that you said, bro?"
I pull the derringer out of my pocket, thumb the hammer back and point it at a spot between his eyes, six inches from his head. "I said I have two hundred dollars. But, I’m sorry to say, you cannot have any of it." Things fall silent then. Even the cicadas cease their racket. I motion the other two from behind me and I back out onto the street and head for Central.
Screw this place. I catch the next bus and go back downtown.
The police department is not my favorite place to go. They have old magazines and no really good place to eat. I put in a request for information on Poppy with an old girlfriend of mine, Jolene Benik, who works in the records section. She is not all that happy to see me or to do me a favor. She looks good in an anklelength dress with large orange flowers printed on it. Her blond hair hangs over her shoulders and her bright red lips turn down at the corners when she sees me. I smile largely at her, but she does not smile back. I have to make some empty promises to get her to help me.. I am a little hurt when she does not ask what had happened to my hand.
It is stuffy in the waiting room and I doze off. I am on a finger hunting expedition in Honduras when I am shaken roughly out of my dream. Jolene has her face next to mine and is whispering angrily at me.
"Come with me," she says and leads me into the stairwell.
"What the hell is going on, Jerry?" she growls.
"What?"
"You trying to get me in trouble?"
"Tell me what you’re talking about, Jolene?"
"I put that name into the computer and it came up blank. That was locally. So I go the extra step because its you and check on the national level." She stops then and lights a cigarette. She takes a few puffs.
"And?" I coax.
She draws on the cigarette and looks me in the eye. "And? I’ll tell you ‘and’. The damn Secret Service gets into the act. They send out queries wanting to know who is asking and why. They say to detain the person for questioning."
"What did you tell them?"
She blows smoke at me and says, "I didn’t tell them anything. I got the hell off line."
"You going to get in trouble?" I ask softly. 11
She shrugs. "I don’t think so. I was smart enough not to use my own terminal. The Captain was out to lunch, so I used his."
"Why?"
"Hell, I’ve known you too long." She tosses the cigarette, steps on it and turns for the door. "Take it easy, Jeronimo."
As the door closes, I hold it and yell at her, "Hey, how come you never asked me about my hand?"
She stops and says, "What’s to ask? I just figured you screwed something up."
I let the door close and leave the building. You can not argue with logic like that.
It is Wednesday morning and I am sitting in a restaurant in the college area on Central trying to drink enough coffee to overcome the pills and booze I consumed last night in a futile effort to suppress the pain in my hand and get to sleep. At ten thirty, I head back to the office to await Jackie Fallis and the other five hundred he promised. My only fear is that perhaps he expected results. Nothing to do but wait and find out.
The time goes by quickly but he does not arrive on time. By one o’clock I am beginning to think he won’t show. I am about to leave when the door opens and Jackie enters quickly. He is dressed pretty much the same, but this time he carries a large army style duffel bag.
"A little late there, pal," I say and lean back in my chair. "I’d just about given up on you."
Jackie sets the bag down by the door, I can tell there is something heavy inside it, and looks around the offfice. He walks over and looks inside the bathroom. Finally he turns to me and smiles, tentatively, as if he weren’t use to doing it.
"Sorry," he rasps, "but, I got tied up." He gestures at the room. "We alone?"
"You just seen the whole place," I say, not liking him. "Did you see anybody?"
Jackie glanced around the room one more time and then looked at me again, the smile sliding off his face. Those damn sunglasses masked his eyes, but I’d be willing to bet they weren’t smiling either. He walked to the door and locked it. I slipped my hand into my pocket and gripped the derringer.
Then he surprised me by taking off the sunglasses and flashing a genuine smile. He wiped his brow and said, "Whew! It is damn hot out there." He sits down and lays the glasses on the desk. A concerned look passes over his face. "What has happened to your hand?"
I shrug. "Nothing much. Just a minor accident."
He studies the bandage from his seat for a moment and then lets out a heavy sigh. "Ah, well, it can’t be helped." He looks me in the eye. "Tell me, what have you found out about Poppy?"
I take a deep breath and plunge into it. I start by saying, "Well, I’m afraid I didn’t have much luck there." I go over the events of the last two days as they pertained to Poppy and leave out the personal things that happened to me. Jackie listens attentively and takes particular interest in the part the Secret Service played. I finish with my exit from the police station.
He is studying the top of my desk when I make my apologies for not finding anything else out. I almost say he doesn’t have to pay me the rest of the money, but stop myself long before I get to that point.
You can imagine my astonishment when he shouts, "Excellent!" He claps his hands and bounces in his seat. "You did wonderfully! Better than I had hoped!"
I was more than a little curious. "I don’t get it," I say. I didn’t really accomplish anything. I just asked a few questions that didn’t come with any answers." I hold my good hand, palm up. "What exactly did I do?"
13
"Before we get into the story," Jackie says, seeming not to notice as I slide the gun back into my jeans,
"let us settle our business." He leans back and points to the money. "I think I promised you another five
hundred dollars. There she be."
I slide the pile into the desk drawer without counting it.
"I see you have a fridge back there. Got anything cold? Beer, perhaps?"
I roll the chair back and open the refrigerator. There was one can of beer and one bottle of brandy. I
thought there was more. Chaco must have been here.
"I got beer and I got brandy."
"If you don’t mind," Jackie says, "I’ll have the beer."
I hand it to him and sit back. "How about the story now?"
Jackie popped the beer, but stopped short of drinking it. "I can’t drink alone, Mr McShane. You’ll
have to join me." He smiles then and waits.
"Ah, what the hell, its almost dinnertime anyway." I open the brandy, toast him and take a long
swallow. It is cold and feels good, but doesn’t taste quite right. I drink some more and the flavor seems to
come around, but is still slightly off. Jackie sips the beer and watches me. He seems nice enough, but that
staring is becoming annoying. I decide I just want him to leave. Screw the story.
14
"Alright, Fallis, tell the story or don’t tell it. I don’t care." There is a buzzing in my ears and I
wonder if there are cicadas in my office. I tip the bottle back and it tastes much better. But, now, my arms
are heavy.
Jackie is smiling, but there is no mirth. "I’ll try to tell you as much as I can while there is still time.
But, have no fear, if I don’t finish today, there is always tomorrow.
"Tomorrow?" I say. My head is spinning. "I thought you and I were fished?" I try to focus on Jackie.
"Did I just say "fished"? I reach for the brandy, but my arms hang limply at my sides.
Jackie holds the bottle to my lips and says, "Let me help you, my boy."
My tongue is numb and I barely feel the brandy spilling down the front of my shirt. I lose my hearing
then and my vision fades fast. The last thing I remember is Jackie drinking the beer and laughing.
I awake sometime later. It seems like the blink of an eye, but of course it is much longer than that. I
am still behind my desk but facing the window now. Jackie is still here. He is standing at the window
looking down at the street, but he seems different. He has dyed his hair. No, wait, he is wearing a wig. A
long haired,black one and it is tied back into a ponytail. My mouth tastes foul and my head aches. I try to
stand up, but cannot manage it. Jackie hears me and turns around. He smiles.
"Welcome back," he says. "I was beginning to think you were going to miss the show."
"I can’t move," I mumble.
"Don’t worry, the drugs should be almost worn off by now. You’re just tied to the chair."
I see a rope around my waist and am confused. "What the hell is going on?"
15
Jackie frowns. "I would have thought, you being a big detective and all, that you’d have figured it
out."
"Hey, I’ve been unconscious. Why don’t you just tell."
Jackie laughed. "Well, stupid, in about ten minutes you’re going to assassinate the president."
I shook my head to clear it. "No I’m not."
"Okay, I’m actually going to do it, but you’ll get the credit."
"How do you figure?"
Jackie steps from the window and points to a rifle in the corner. "Recognize it?"
"That’s mine."
"And so is this," Jackie says and holds up my pistol.
"Where’s my big screen TV?"
He wipes a tear from his eye and says, "You didn’t expect me to give you my own money did you?"
"You sold it for a lousy five hundred dollars?"
He waves his hand at me, becoming agitated. "That is beside the point. You are missing the
brilliance of my plan." He looks up the street once and seems satisfied.
"Okay, listen to this. I planned to kill the prez and needed a place to do it. Right? This building
was a good choice. Your office on the fourth floor provided the best shot and time to escape." He pauses
here and smiles at me in a fatherly way. "And you," he slaps me on the back and my arms tingle, feeling
coming back, "were just too good to be true. A government trained, green beret killer who was discharged
on a psycho charge. Perfect! And," Jackie holds up a finger, "you were out asking questions about Poppy
Fields."
16
"What’s up with the wig?" I have to buy some time. My legs are tingling now. "And why didn’t you
tie me up better?"
"The wig? Anybody looks up here? They see you. As for the rope, no rope burns." He taps his
head. "Smart, no?"
There was a piece missing. "What about me?" I croak through a dry throat.
He pats me on the head. "It will be a tragic tale, I’m afraid. After shooting the president, you will be
so overcome with remorse that you will take this pistol and commit suicide. And then you will go down in
history along with Boothe and Oswald and those other guys who killed presidents."
I shake my head vigorously trying to clear it.
"The drugs won’t pass out completely for awhile. You drank a lot of it." He laughs out loud this
time and slaps me on the knee. "That was beautiful, too! I had it set up so there was only one beer and one
brandy. I knew you would drink it!"
Jackie looks out the window, tenses and steps back. He holds a finger to his lips.
"I could yell," I say.
"I could hit you with the butt of this rifle," he says back to me. Then he shrugs. "No one can hear
you anyway." He works the bolt and I hear a bullet slide into the chamber. The crowd noise increases and
Jackie peers out the window. He opens it wider and sights down the barrel. He holds his breath.
I am only six feet from him and his back is to me. I wiggle my toes and stand up, the chair tied to my
backside. I hold my breath and charge, arms outstetched.
17
I strike Fallis in the back with my injured hand and slap his head with my good one and he goes out
the window head first, taking the rifle with him. I watch Jackie do a slow motion cartwheel, arms and legs
flailing awkwardly. It seems like it takes him a long time to reach the ground. When he finally does, it is
not a pretty nor graceful sight. I am teetering on the window ledge, trying to keep my balance. I notice that
I am clutching the wig he was wearing. And then, I too, go out the window. My only hope is that I will
look better to the world than the bloody heap Fallis has made of himself. I close my eyes and wait.
People call me Jeronimo now and I do not mind it too much. The news media really played up the
picture of me clutching that wig while dangling in mid air. They called it a scalp. They got my name wrong,
though. Spelled it with a "G"
NMM
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