Call Me Kid, Page 2

  Chapter 3

  When the clock struck ten, Jennifer stood and glanced at the Kid. Shuffling while clutching her favorite gray wool robe against the December cold, she lumbered to the stairs. With a twisting motion, her right hand seized the banister, causing the wood to groan. In addition, with each of her steps, his anxiety grew, while the sound of the creaking boards ruptured his insides. He listened. His heart followed her to the second floor.

  His double Scotch nightcap lay on the counter. He wobbled to the glass. He raised the amber cocktail to sip, but before the first nip, the doorbell chimed. Irritated, he threw the drink into the sink behind the bar. “I’ll get sober just to show them. They’ll stop all this talk of alcoholism”.

  He lurched to the front entrance while his hands sought stability from furniture. “Who are you?”

  A face from the porch stared through one of the side windowpanes. “Mr. Hendricks, we are harmless folks. All we want is to talk over a little business proposition with you. We’ve been here before, but you wouldn’t see us. We ain’t quitting. We’re coming every day.”

  “First, call me Kid, because at Fishburne Military School I shot twenty bull’s eyes in a row. They nicknamed me ‘the Tobacco Land Kid.’

  “All right Kid, can we—?”

  The Kid held his head higher than usual. “If you want an altercation, I’ll take you on, one at a time.”

  “We ain’t here for no trouble.”

  “Nobody is talking problems. I’m saying just a fist fight.”

  With his thumbs locked around his belt buckle, the stranger nodded. “Please, Kid, let us in to talk business.”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  He unlocked the door. If for only a moment, the wind won a victory over the odor of Scotch. So too did the gusts defeat the stench of the Kid’s T-shirt and tail, since neither had seen daylight nor a good washing in days.

  The three entered before the rain soaked their clothing. Each swept off a baseball cap, which they held at their sides, all clean-shaven, wearing khakis, blue work coats, and steel-toed shoes.

  “Be brief, gentlemen. I’m quite busy.”

  “My name’s Warren Hawk.” Warren pumped his hand. “We’re from out west. Yes sir, you got a reputation all over Eastern North Carolina and Southern Virginia because of your heroics with them girl scouts, not to mention them championship baseball teams and hunting skills. Seen stories written by and about you in hunting magazines, too.” Warren smiled and nodded. “Folks tell you’re able to put a box of bullets in a target three hundred yards away. Your shooting’s so good and the group’s so tight, George Washington’s picture on a dollar bill will hide every hole.”

  The Kid motioned for them to follow him to the game room. “Yes, if the weather conditions are suitable.” He flopped into his chair while they stood.

  “Excuse me. Meet my boys. This is Floyd. This is Andrew. Anyway, they also tell me one day you went in the woods with nothing but a sharp knife. Two weeks later, you came out with a pair of antlers and a wild turkey beard.”

  “Mr. Hawk, the present is not good to me. I never can get the idea to send me forward. I used a hatchet not a knife. I always carry matches with a half pint of gasoline in an unbreakable metal container. The area is like an old backyard. My high school lies in the Shenandoah Valley, Fishburne Military.” After walking to the bar, he poured himself a scotch over the rocks. He offered neither Warren nor the boys anything. They remained standing, keeping their hats at their sides. The Kid returned to his seat and leaned back, causing the chair to squeak. He glanced from one to the other. They listened for twenty minutes while he communicated knowledge about his skills of the forest. “That’s a few things I’ve learned over the years.”

  The Kid rose, then walked around the leather furniture to pour another short drink, but this time, most of the beverage missed the glass and landed on his feet. He paused and his eyes swept the trophy animal heads.

  “You’re something, Mr. Kid,” said Warren.

  He pointed a shaking finger at Warren. “I told you what to call me, Mr. Hawk.”

  Warren smiled. “I believe you’re the best woodsman and turkey hunter in America. You went into the George Washington National Forest by yourself, ahead of the rescue squad, to find some lost girls?

  “Yeah.” With one gulp, he killed the glass of scotch. “Went in during a snowstorm, carried food in, got ‘em out. Nothing to it. Their car broke down on Coal Road. Borrowed the Yount family car, crammed the nine girls in. Got back and sent help to the scout leaders. You wish for me to sell outdoor equipment or something?

  Warren’s lips twisted. “I want to hire you to take my daughter turkey hunting. I ain’t no multimillionaire.”

  “I like all three of you. That’s some request. Something you’re not telling me?”

  Warren glanced at each of his boys. “Maybe.”

  “You have your reasons. My retirement time is here. You’ve heard I drink a little. Don’t get any ideas about alcoholism.”

  Warren bit his thumbnail.

  The Kid’s chin dropped to his chest. “I’m not interested. Find the Chameleon.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “No one’s like him when the conditions require hiding or camouflage. Folks say he appears out of nowhere just to prove how good he is. One hunter came out of the woods, said he fell asleep while turkey hunting. When he woke one of the Chameleon’s cards was lying in his lap, along with a bottle of mineral water and cheese and crackers.”

  The Kid thought. The hands are shaking. Why don’t they stop? Take another small drink. “Finding this mystery man of the forest can be a difficult task, Warren. I think he’s a gentleman. He may assist you. The law wants to ask him some questions, too.”

  “What gives you the thought he’ll help?”

  “Listen. He’s a person of patience. Does things correctly. Never frightens anyone. I’ll bet he’s not a loner. Put the word out among the turkey hunters. Perhaps he’ll show up.”

  The verbal sparring continued. Warren had done his due diligence, but the Kid’s skull gave shelter to an unusual brain. No matter how drunk he got, he controlled his judgment. Furthermore, he weighed all issues with care upon giving his word. Regardless of his state of intoxication, he kept the promise. The Kid would offer the name of an outstanding turkey hunter, and without hesitation, Warren countered by proving the individual could not do the task. Warren gained no ground. “Spiffy’s as strong as an ox, ain’t he?”

  The Kid suspected a change in his strategy when Warren posed a question about Spiffy.

  He eyed Warren. “Why the sudden interest in Spiffy?”

  Warren’s eyebrows rose. “Folks say you’re strong, too.”

  The trembles came back.

  The Kid thought. Let one hand hold the other steady. This nonsense with Mr. Hawk must stop. “Strength’s important to you. Why?”

  Warren did not return an answer.

  Exasperated, the Kid ran his fingers through his hair. He walked to the door. Warren and his boys followed him to the main entrance. While stepping onto the porch, they donned their hats. Warren turned. “We’ll be back.”

  Chapter 4

  “We’ll be back, we’ll be back, we’ll be back,” muttered the Kid. With the aid of the banister, he swayed up the steps. His stomach clenched as the stairs rose and fell like the crowded fishing boat they rode years ago. “Oh, Jennifer.” Stumbling twice, he caught himself with his right hand, while the goal of the million-dollar idea remained in his brain.

  In the next few days, he ate little, but he felt no hunger. Casting the thought of food aside, staggering to a corner of the bedroom, he picked up a firearm-—a Garand—-then fell crosswise on the sheets.

  ***

  Light’s coming in through the cracked bathroom door. The beam forms something of a narrow triangle on the ceiling. Its shape is similar to that of a rifle shot group, with two well-placed rounds as well as another, off the mark. Shouldn’t be that way. The
Garand’s in zero, sights adjusted for a given distance. Shoot again. He aimed. He clicked three times with his tongue to imitate the hammer of a rifle striking a firing pin. No improvement. The best thing to do is practice more. Yeah, then with the old form established, a dime can cover the rounds on a target.

  The rest of the area above is dull, and creepy. Why? What’s wrong? If only these hands would stop shaking. Something is coming into the triangle. Yeah, a Smokey Brown cockroach. The exterminators don’t open until nine in the morning. Wait— maybe tomorrow is Saturday or Sunday.

  The Smokey is an insect. The creature is detritivorous, which means they gorge on decaying matter and feces. Spikes cover the six legs. The thorax is dark and shiny, while the upper side is mahogany-colored. The head has a prehistoric appearance and under magnification, some cigar-shaped brown crap appears near the neck. They can run and weave like a football halfback. Only the agile can run one down and mash it.

  The insect disappeared. Wait. Did the bastard fall on the bed? Yes, on the pillow— look at those antennas brushing the air for information. Maybe sizing me up? The Ancients imagined their fearful description of the devil. Would the cockroach make a better image of evil?

  Now the roach’s back beside the ceiling light. Millions are coming out of the gray creepy area to join the one! They’re running down the walls! They’re crossing the floor! They’re going to storm on top of me!

  A full clip lies on the night table. Shove the bullets in.

  The bolt drove a live round into the chamber. By pushing his trigger finger forward, he took the safety off, which prepared the rifle. He opened fire. Seven times he aimed. Seven times he fired. Seven times a flash came from the muzzle. Seven times the roaches kept coming. With one shot left, he aimed at the middle of the mass of insects and pulled the trigger. The follower at the bottom below the bolt caused a ‘ping’ when the mechanism sent the empty clip into the air.

  With desperation, his heels pushed the mattress in an attempt to move backwards, losing all traction because a cold perspiration covered his body. He gained nothing except mental bankruptcy.

  A scream.

  Light blistered the room.

  “Kid! Kid! Kid!” Jennifer threw her two-hundred pound frame on him. She spent the night with racking sobs erupting from her chest.

  ***

  The loblolly pines swayed, making the sun’s shadows dance on the flowered sheets and pillowcases. “Kid, are you okay now?” Jennifer rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “For the time being he is,” said William E. Hendricks.

  Jennifer looked into her son’s eyes. “Oh, Ervin, Ervin, when did’ja get here?”

  He had black hair. His face displayed no disfigurements. With those exceptions, he bore a resemblance to his dad, wearing a suit, shirt, and tie, all cheap, from a bargain house, but on Ervin, the clothes said, “New York.”

  “When you screamed, I let myself in. As a medical doctor, I decided to plan rather than act.”

  “Ervin, last night the train station said you would not ‘rrive before dawn.”

  To determine the Kid’s pulse, Ervin stepped forward. “The problem was a minor obstruction on the rails—-we continued with just a ten-minute delay. He’s coming around a bit. How are you feeling, Dad?”

  His hands shook. “Not so good, Son.”

  “Want a scotch and water, Dad?”

  The Kid seized Ervin’s arm, pulling him close enough to give him a three-stroke knuckle haircut. “Yeah, Son, I need one.”

  Ervin smiled. “Same old Dad. Let me pour. Can you hold the drink using two hands to steady the glass?”

  “Yes, Son. I’m not an alcoholic. I just need a short one to calm my nerves.”

  The mattress squeaked as he managed to sit. Ervin handed him a drink. The Kid’s fight for control proved fruitless, since the liquid rose to the brink on one side, then fell on the other. He pressed his hands to his chest to gain control of the container. Working the tumbler upwards did the trick. He leaned back and drank.

  Jennifer’s head drooped. She pressed her lower lip against the top until the bottom lip protruded. “Is this what they teach you in medical school? Give them scotch.”

  Ervin kissed her on the cheek. “Mom, think a little.”

  “Yes Ervin, I gave him some alcohol during the night.”

  Ervin replaced the cap. “Here Dad, I’ll leave the bottle. Your hands should settle. If need be, pour yourself another short one. Mom, I’ll be downstairs cooking you something to eat. In med school, we all learn to keep our expenses down.”

  While shaking his head, the Kid pursed his lips. “Ervin, you are aware of our finances. Anytime we can help, say so. Besides, Son, I’ll get the million-dollar idea.”

  “Your gestures are always appreciated, but let me fend for myself.”

  ***

  Ervin walked into the kitchen. Using one hand, he cracked an egg. From habit, he checked for blood spots. None appeared. Two more passed, and all three went to a skillet with hot olive oil. In minutes, the eggs, sunny-side up, showed shy bubbles creeping from the edges. In the second pan, he fried bacon; the sizzling reminded Ervin of his grandfather’s fabrication shop, because the crackling sounded like stick welding. A smile crossed his face when he noted the same color smoke. The intoxicating fragrance caused Ervin to close his eyes. The aroma bore no resemblance to anything in metalworking, but after breakfast, what would be his encore with Dad?

  Jennifer entered the kitchen. “Ervin, I think you demonstrate more talent as a cook than a doctor.”

  “A compliment or an insult?” Ervin swept the eggs into a platter.

  Ervin put two pieces of bread, each topped with a slice of cheese, into the oven. “Mom, listen to my plan. Let’s sit in the living room.”

  ***

  Furnished with Early American antiques and heart pine floors, the room also displayed blue puddled curtains.

  They sat on a sofa.

  “Son, this plan better be good. I can’t believe his condition is so dismal. That scream.... He’s going through a stage called the DTs. Right?”

  “Yes, delirium tremens. The symptoms may last from three to ten days. I imagine he will refuse this food.”

  Jennifer pulled out a handkerchief, not to wipe her eyes but to give her nervous hands something to do. “What can we do, Ervin?”

  Ervin took a seat beside her and stressed the need for at least two strong, reliable people. Furthermore, to preserve the Kid’s dignity and reputation, he decided that the discussion must not leave the house. Ervin let Jennifer know he could resist; if he did, they would tie him to the bed. Shirking from the task meant his death in less than six months.

  With bursts of whimpers, Jennifer cried.

  After getting herself together, she told the story of a man with his two boys—-they traveled the county gathering information, hoping to persuade him to help his daughter hunt a gobbler. They appeared to be solid working people, maybe Native Americans. They had given her their cell number. Ervin suggested calling them for an interview. Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed.

  ***

  An hour later, three men arrived by car.

  Jennifer waddled to the door. “I remember you. Come in, gentlemen.”

  Warren whisked off his baseball cap. “Mrs. Hendricks, my name is Warren Hawk.” He nudged one of his boys. Quicker than jackrabbits, they removed their caps, too.

  With a sweep of her arm, Jennifer signaled them to sit. She and Ervin took single chairs.

  Warren’s Adam’s apple jumped. He pressed his lips together. “We’re sorry to trouble you folks, but we need the Kid’s help real bad. We want him to take our daughter hunting to shoot a wild turkey gobbler.”

  Ervin nodded for Jennifer to speak. “Warren, why’s the Kid so important? North Carolina has a few professional hunters, not counting many talented amateurs, from which you can choose.”

  “The Kid’s the best.”

  “Warren, you telling us everything? I
don’t like people trying to fool me.”

  “We want to catch the Kid in a good mood,” said Warren.

  Jennifer wiped a tear. She shifted in her chair. The chair complained. “Warren, there’s much you don’t know.” She glanced at Ervin. “This’s my son, Ervin.”

  “Nice meeting you, Doctor,”

  “Same here, Warren. What makes you think I’m an M.D.?”

  “You have a license, but you gotta’ do a residency. Your dad is the most famous hunter in North America. Good barroom fighter, too. His reputation makes some people curious about his family.”

  Jennifer plastered on a smile. “Warren, just before you came, we were discussing you along with the possibility of a little quid pro quid—”

  “Mother, quid pro quo.”

  “Ervin, that’s what I said and …but first, I have some tea or orange juice for you and your handsome sons?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hendricks.”

  Jennifer rose. She stumbled. “Hell!” She regained her footing. “Oh, me.” She shuffled to the kitchen. Her backside looked like two grizzly bears wrestling in a tent.

  Ervin covered his smile with both hands. He stood. “Warren, will the three of you come stand in the hall while I tell you a few things? I want Mother to hear, so she can fill in if necessary. Warren, is your word good? Everything’s confidential?”

  “Of course, Doctor, we’re Native Americans.”

  Ervin stared at the floor. He looked up. “Guys, listen. I’ll be blunt. The Kid is an alcoholic. Help us. We’ll assist you. If we can encourage him to guide your daughter hunting, we will… We cannot guarantee anything. We need to dry him out. Get good food in him. Force him to weight train, et cetera. Do you understand?”

  “You promise to back us when we try to talk the Kid into taking my daughter turkey hunting? You’ll understand when you know about her health.”

  “Yes, Warren, let me get you straight. You do, of course, grasp the fact that if for some reason we disagree with your motives or discover something heinous, we won’t keep our word?”