“U.S. 40? That goes to St. Louis, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but 123 takes us right into Clearmont.” Ivan’s voice held a note of hope each time he mentioned his hometown.
“Look, dad, I don’t want to go to Clearmont, dig?”
Ivan turned and smiled. “I understand. You have your own home, your own place to go back to.”
“Uh-uh. I got nowhere!” Hanes said emphatically. “But it’s still raining, and I don’t like the idea of getting back on the road. Must be close to three a.m.”
“I suppose.”
“I hate to do this, dad, but I want to go to St. Louis.”
Ivan shook his head. “I don’t understand how people can like a big city. I used to tell Ella that all the time, but she had her mind made up.”
“You’re not listening so good, old man. I said I’m going to St. Louis. I want the car.”
Ivan’s foot lifted from the gas pedal and the car slowed as he peered at the boy. “My car?”
“Now you’re getting the picture.”
“But you can’t. I have to go to Clearmont. I have to take—”
“Shut up! I’ve listened to enough of your talk. I’m taking the car.” Hanes pulled his hand from his pocket and Ivan saw the gun.
He spoke softly. “You can’t. I have to go home.”
“I said shut up! Now pull over!” He pushed the gun into Ivan’s ribs.
Dazed, Ivan brought the car to a stop at the side of the road. Automatically, he put it in park before he let his hands fall to his lap. He looked at Hanes. “You’re making a mistake, Paul.”
“I already made one when I let my name slip. I can’t leave you around to call the cops, now can I?”
Ivan shook his head. “You don’t understand. Running away doesn’t help. You’ll be just as lonely in St. Louis or California. Go home now, before it’s too late.”
“You crazy fool! You ain’t even scared!”
“Scared? Why should I be? I’m on my way home. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Go back before it’s too late, boy. Go back where you belong, where people understand you.”
Hanes laughed and the sound was harsh in the small space of the car. “You’re freaked out, man, really gone. Get out of the car.”
“Paul—”
“I said get out!” Paul’s voice was high and tight.
“Listen to me, please.”
“I ain’t listening to nobody!” he snapped.
“Can’t you get it through your head, I have no home! There’s a parole violation and an armed robbery rap waiting for me back there. I’m never going back to jail!” His face twisted with anger. The gun jammed at Ivan’s ribs. “Get out!”
Ivan reached his hand toward the gun. The kid didn’t wait for him to finish the move. His finger squeezed the trigger. The noise filled the car and exploded inside Ivan.
A barrier blocked the road. The highway patrol car, red light blinking dully through the rain, stood at the side of the pavement. Panic swept through Paul Hanes as the man in the slicker approached and motioned him to roll down the window.
Cool it, he told himself. You got nothing to worry about. The old guy said he had no family so they can’t be looking for him. No one could have discovered the body in the ditch yet. Cool it. He covered the bulge of the gun in his pocket with his elbow.
“Yes, Officer?”
“Routine check, may I see your driver’s license?”
“Certainly.” He began to search his pockets. He frowned. “I must have left my wallet at home. I’m sorry.”
The policeman looked at him.
“Isn’t a citizen allowed a few days to produce his license now?” Paul wasn’t as calm as he tried to make his voice.
The officer nodded and a small cascade of water ran from the brim of his hat. “If you’ll just give me your name and address.”
Hanes fingered the gun. “Ivan Merthau, Route One, Clearmont,” he said, recalling the typed information on the license in the wallet he’d emptied.
He wasn’t prepared for the quick motion that yanked open the door. Before he could get the gun out, the patrolman grabbed his shoulder and pulled him from the car.
“Get your hands on the roof!” the man warned.
“What—”
“Keep them there!”
Paul Hanes heard a door slam and saw another figure hurry toward them from the patrol car. The policeman searched Paul quickly and found his gun.
“Okay, turn around.” Both men had their guns pointed at him. “Step aside.”
The second officer opened the back door of the car and shone his flashlight on a heap of blankets on the floor. He lifted one corner and directed the beam on the head and shoulders of a woman. The gray hair was matted with blood, the skull caved in and mushy looking.
Paul Hanes stopped breathing for a moment and then felt the nausea choke him.
“I don’t know nothing about her!” The words rasped from his throat.
“Over to the patrol car.” The officer motioned with the gun.
Hanes moved like a zombie. “I don’t know nothing about her,” he yelled into the rain.
At the car, one officer sat in back with Paul while the other called headquarters. When he hung up the mike, he looked back at his partner. “I thought Merthau was an old man?”
The man next to Paul shrugged.
“I’m not Merthau,” Paul Hanes said quickly. “I was lying. I swear I don’t know about that body in the car!”
“Where’s Ivan Merthau?” the man asked.
Paul knew then what the old man had been trying to say. The crazy old coot had killed his wife! And Paul Hanes killed the old man. Sooner or later they’d find the body in the rain-filled ditch back near the crossroad. They’d match the bullet to his gun. One murder rap was as good as another.
Sirens wailed and whined to a stop. Hanes looked at the men sloshing toward them. He turned to the patrolman at his side. “What was the roadblock all about?” he asked.
The man looked at him. “We were looking for Merthau. He called from Springfield to the Sheriff at Clearmont. Said he’d had a fight with his wife and killed her with the fireplace poker. He said he was coming home and he was bringing her.” He nodded toward the barrier. “We weren’t taking any chances that he might change his mind.”
The rain had soaked through Paul’s coat again and he shivered. Then he started to laugh. He was going home after all.
My Friend the Frog
by Arthur Moore
Right or wrong, I was sure to die. I didn’t know which way to jump. Not ’til a frog showed me a way...
“Dubois,” says Roxy Callahan, “Saturday is my birthday and I am like having a hunnerd close friends to the celebration, but there is a hitch.”
“Izzat so?” I say, wondering why Roxy is telling me all this. He and I are not as close as Cleveland is to Hong Kong. He has cornered me in Katzie’s Saloon and ladled out a largesse of lager with a lavish hand.
“This is a birthday party which has been announced a month ago,” he tells me. “It is a question of face.”
I nod, getting the direction of his drift. Roxy has a lot of face to save. He is about as handsome as a fire hydrant, only he is not painted yellow. He is all hood and a chopper wide and there is talk that he was not born but was hatched from a hand grenade.
“So I want you to get the dance contest postponed,” he says. “There is a C note in it for your trouble.”
“What dance contest?” I ask, surprised.
He frowns at me like I am not the brightest barnacle on the beach. “Faceless Robert is holding this Saturday riot on the parking lot of the Club 97. You must of heard.”
“Oh, that riot,” I say, remembering that Gunny Smith, Faceless’ number one head hood and Trigger type is always getting summer notions to route revenue into the clutches of the Big Cat, namely, Faceless... and the Club’s coffers.