Easy Death (3 page)

In the back, Logan thought back on Trudy’s cooking, and the recent Thanksgiving feast. Remembered the dry, blackened turkey, so tough it hurt his teeth to chew it, and the soupy, over-salted stuffing.

“We’d like to,” he said, “but the kids want to go over to Maggie’s brother. They’ve got television, and they’re crazy about it.”

“Yeah, Trudy wants to get us one, and I guess maybe we might after Christmas.”

“I wouldn’t have one in the house. I know folks that got one and that’s all they do all night is sit in the front room and stare at the damn thing. Don’t much talk to each other no more at all. Just stare at the box.”

“Some people, that might be an improvement.” Chuck maneuvered the heavy truck into the parking lot at the rear of the Bootheville Federal Bank and up near the marble steps, just slightly smaller and less imposing than the steps out front.

“What kind of a family life is that?” Logan asked from the back. “If all you do is look at a box and don’t talk to each other?”

“Not much of one.” Chuck stepped on the clutch, moved the gearshift to “N” and set the brake. “Let’s get out now and make a living.”

* * *

Behind the bank, Logan stood with the shotgun across his chest, blinking snow out of his eyes as Chuck and a junior teller hauled bulging bags three feet wide and four feet long out from the vault, then piled them in the truck.

“Twelve bags.” Chuck signed the form, wiped snow from it and tore out the copy under the carbon paper to give to the teller while Logan locked himself back in the truck with the bags of money.

“Someone’s getting a merry Christmas,” the teller said. He brushed snow from his hair and shivered.

“Yeah, I guess,” Chuck said.

* * *

Logan turned on the two-way radio again and got it warmed up.

“Jerry, this is Logan and Chuck. Over.”

The answer sounded like it might have been in English, but that was all Logan could tell.

“Hey, Chuck,” he called up front, “I can’t hardly understand Jerry at all.”

“Reception’s always bad here back of the bank.” Chuck rolled down the window and called, “Hey, Fred!” to the departing back of the bank teller.

Already at the top of the slippery steps and almost inside the door, Fred hesitated; he didn’t much care to stand outside any longer, not in this weather, and he briefly debated pretending he didn’t hear. Then he remembered it was almost Christmas and some childhood memory kicked in and told him Santa might be watching.

He turned. “Yeah, Chuck?”

“Call the office, would you? Tell ’em we’re en route to Willisburg?”

“Your radio not working?” He thought uncomfortably of all that money inside the departing truck.

“Reception’s bad back here,” Chuck said, “and I guess this weather’s not helping any. Would you call in for us?”

A blast of cold air made up Fred’s mind. “Sure.” He waved. “And merry Christmas!”

“Yeah, you too.”

Inside the truck, Logan switched off the radio and braced himself as they moved out. “We can check back in Willisburg, I guess.” He settled himself on the bench and propped a foot on a money bag.

Up front, Chuck swore and tap-danced the brake as a car in front of them slid sideways. “Don’t nobody remember how to drive in snow anyhow?”

“It’ll get easier once we get off the highway and onto the Willisburg Cut-off,” Logan said. “Nobody much uses that road anyhow, and a day like this…”

Sometime later, as the truck crossed over the railroad tracks at the edge of town, headed for Willisburg and points north, the radio antenna that should have been screwed tight to the roof swayed, bounced, and finally dropped out of its bracket. Out this far, there was no one behind them to see it stab into the thick, wet snow and bury itself.

Inside the truck, Logan talked of television, society, and the death of civilized conversation as they drove on into the deepening whiteness. Up front, Chuck ignored him, listening to the radio—

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus
Right down Santa Claus Lane,
Vixen and Blitzen and all his reindeer
Pulling on the reins….

December 20, 1951

11:00 AM

Officer Drapp

The tire tracks from the getaway car took me straight where I knew they would: right through the main gate at Boothe National Park.

The road here got sheltered from the wind by thick woods on each side, so I didn’t worry as much about snow drifts—not like I’d been bucking all the way up through that open farm country—but there looked to have been maybe another inch of snow in the last half-hour, and it wasn’t for easing up any.

Boothe National Park covers about sixteen square miles of what is mostly woods, and this part here was what they call a scenic drive: easy slopes winding through the trees, and in nicer times it would have made a pretty sight I bet, but for pushing a clunky truck through deep snow, that road was just something else for me to cuss at, working the clutch in and out, down-shifting, brake-tapping and now and again just gunning the engine and feeling the wheels spin as that old beast crawled up those gentle inclines like Moses working a miracle.

This was getting to be too much like work.

Then all at once the woods thinned away and I pushed out onto open park grounds. Big playground and picnic benches, all covered in maybe two foot or more of snow, public toilets, signs I couldn’t read for the snow stuck on them…the tracks in front of me just plowed through all of it.

And they went right past the visitor center.

For a minute there, I almost kept going myself. Then I got a glimpse of something parked beside the building. Hard to be sure in all that snow, but it looked like a Jeep.

That meant there was like to be someone inside, someone who’d maybe seen the car I was following and could tell about it. Also, it meant I might get a little help with this operation; that Jeep looked like a good bet for getting around in all this white slop. I put that up against whatever time I might lose going in there instead of following those tracks, and then I steered right, coaxing the truck through unbroken snow up to the building, close as I could get to the door.

As I got out, I undid a couple buttons on my coat and unsnapped the flap on my holster so I could get a hand in there quick did I need to. No sense taking chances with a job like this. I switched off the engine, cutting off Perry Como right in the middle of a long, smooth note. No question about it, the man could carry a tune.

December 20, 1951

8:25 AM

Mort, Slimmy and Sweeney

About a quarter-mile up the Willisburg Cut-off, just north of the main highway, Jack Mortimer took a deep breath of cold air and pulled again—and again—on his end of the long cross-cut saw, trying to make every ounce of his reedy body count for something. He felt the wind creep under his old felt hat and chill the thinning red hair underneath. Wet snow seeped through his cheap shoes. His hands stung and his back throbbed from the effort. He snorted, tried to swallow the snot that kept threatening to drip out his nose, and wished the snow wouldn’t blow in his face. Wished Slimmy, on the other end of the saw, would use that pot-bellied flab of his better, and pull harder and get this damn tree cut down faster. Wished he’d never have to do a job like this again….

A few yards away, resting his bulk by the open door of his brand-new Hudson Hornet, feeling the warm air from the blowing heater turned up full blast, Bud Sweeney—sometimes called Brother Sweetie, but only very quietly and behind his back—looked from where the men were working by the side road, out through the woods to the main highway just beyond, then back to the half-cut tree, and finally at Mort, cold-sweating as he pulled the saw-handle.

“We all wish we weren’t here, Mort. Faster you get the job done, sooner none of us will have to be.” Sweeney’s heavy beard and sharp brown eyes gave him a look somewhere between a college dean and a professional wrestler on television. Now he shifted the butt of a mostly dead cigar across his mouth as he spoke, scarcely aware of its presence.

Mort jumped a little as he pulled on the saw and wondered how Brother Sweetie always seemed to know what he was thinking. But instead of griping at him outright, he called over to Slimmy, “You just gonna ride your end all day?”

“Doin’ as best I can,” Slimmy whined, hands sore from unaccustomed effort.

Sweeney looked at the tree again, then back out at the road. Reluctantly, he left the side of the car, striding in thick rubber boots over to the tree. As the saw cut back and forth he studied the growing gash left in its wake.

“Leave off a minute.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Slimmy let go his end and rubbed his hands for warmth while Mort pulled the blade back to him and out of the tree with a practiced, professional swing. Sweeney looked at the gash again, now more than three-quarters through the base of the trunk. He stuck out a leather-gloved hand and leaned his heavy body on the softwood above the cut.

The tree groaned and swayed. Sweeney leaned harder and produced a heavy, cracking sound. He pulled back.

“Good enough,” he said. “Let’s get in the car and rest up some.”

Mort and Slimmy followed him eagerly across the road to the warm car and started to get in.

“Wipe your damn feet.” Sweeney said it casually, over his shoulder, but both men stopped in their tracks and vigorously kicked the snow, sawdust and splinters off their shoes before they got carefully into the back seat.

“Now if that damn truck ain’t late…” Sweeney passed a half-pint bottle of a reasonably priced whiskey back to the two men.

“Real thoughtful, boss.” Mort took the bottle and carefully drank off just half before he passed it over to Slimmy. “Thanks a lot.”

Sweeney didn’t answer and Slimmy was too busy killing the bottle to add to the conversation.

“Lotta work,” Mort ventured.

Sweeney said nothing. On his side of the back seat, Slimmy worked his tongue around the mouth of the bottle to get the last few drops.

Mort tried again. “I’m just saying it’s a lot of work, that’s all.”

Sweeney turned in the front seat, moving his big shoulders around with surprising speed. “You said something?”

“It’s work.” Mort wished he had another swallow of the whiskey, but Slimmy hadn’t left even a smell. “A lot of work. And cold out.”

“Can’t do nothing about the weather,” Sweeney said patiently, “and if it wasn’t work I wouldn’t pay you for it.”

“Like Mort here said,” Slimmy chimed in, feeling the whiskey, “it’s a awful lot of work for the money.”

“You’re right.” Sweeney still sounded patient, but not by much. “I oughta just give the whole yard-and-a-quarter to Mort here since he did most of it, hadn’t I?”

Slimmy made a sound that might have been a shrill belch or a low-pitched squeal.

“What do you think?” Sweeney turned his hard brown eyes on Mort. Then he took the cigar from his mouth before he spoke, a sure sign this was a special occasion. “You think we ought to just put little Slimmy here out right now and just you take his share?”

Mort could tell it was a trick question, but that didn’t help him find the answer. He tried to look back at Sweeney, tried to meet the level, hard-eyed stare. But he didn’t try it long.

“Guess not,” he said finally.

“So you’re happy with your share? Fifty bucks enough for your end of the saw?”

“Yeah.” It was almost a whisper.

“And how about you?” This to Slimmy. “You happy with seventy-five at your end?”

“Yessir.”

“Couldn’t hear it,” Sweeney said. “I’m asking are you both happy with what you’re getting out of this association?”

“I am,” Mort said eagerly. “Fifty bucks is just fine with me.”

“Me too!” Slimmy added, “My-my share, it’s just great!”

“That’s real good.” Sweeney was matter-of-fact about it. “Because I wouldn’t want you boys to walk away from this job unhappy about anything.” He paused. “I just couldn’t have it.” Paused again so they couldn’t mistake his meaning. “You understand it?”

“Yessir.” Both at once, like they’d practiced it.

“Real good.” Sweeney stuck the cigar back in his mouth to signal the conversation was ended and all three men sat silent in the car, listening to the radio.

Ho-ho-ho
,

Who wouldn’t go?

Ho-ho-ho
,

Who wouldn’t go-o-o,

Up on the house-top click-click-click….

Five minutes later, the big grey-metal truck from Bootheville rumbled past.

“About time.” Sweeney levered his door open and was out of the car before the two men in back had even moved. “You two just rest your delicate butts there,” he said, “don’t want you unhappy about doing any more work out here.”

He walked across the road behind the car and leaned on the tree. It groaned and cracked. He leaned again.

That was all it took.

The tree went crashing down across the road, blocking it completely, the upper branches just missing the back bumper of Sweeney’s car.

Sweeney walked back to the car and pulled open the door on Slimmy’s side.

“Get to it,” was all he said.

Slimmy jumped from the car and managed a quick “Right, boss!” like a soldier snapping to attention. Sweeney eyed him closely.

“That good liquor wasn’t too sweet on you, was it?”

“Nossir!”

“You remember the spot, other side of the park?”

“Yessir!”

Sweeney felt a growing doubt and pondered the wisdom of just doing it himself, but all he said was, “Don’t call me
sir
, I work for a living.”

“Yess-uh…. Right, boss!”

“Now, I’m asking do you remember the spot on the far side of Boothe National?”

“Sure do!” Slimmy shook the whiskey-buzz from his head and concentrated. “You drove us out there twice, dincha? Just last week.”

“And you can get there? The snow won’t bother you none?”

“Boss, I was born in Minnesota, and up there we wouldn’t even call this snow, we’d—” Slimmy found to his alarm that the booze had made him talkative, and he sensed quickly that Sweeney wasn’t happy with it. “Don’t have no problem getting through something like this at all!”