Red Highway (10 page)

“A lawyer?” The officer raised his eyebrows.

“Probably not, may have been an impostor. According to one of the guards, the man's description fits that of one of Alex Kern's old associates who was never apprehended. Kern's been on the streets about a year now.”

“That means they're together.” The officer unbuttoned his shirt pocket and withdrew a cigarette, which he lit with the aid of a battered lighter. “It also means that at least one of your guards has been bought.”

The other nodded gravely. “It seems likely. Somebody had to be looking the other way when that saw was passed over the top of the grid.”

The state cop hissed disgustedly through his teeth. “I don't know how you people expect us to do our job when you keep letting your prisoners escape,” he said bitterly.

The warden rose to the bait. “I don't know how
you
people expect us to do
our
job when you keep giving
your
prisoners a slap on the wrist instead of a sentence.” The two glared at each other across the top of the desk.

“Well, we aren't getting anywhere with this.” The officer placed a palm on the desk. “Do you want your prisoner back, or not?”

The warden's face was curious. “What do you mean?”

“Virgil Ballard. According to our files, he comes from up North. Around Picher.”

The warden nodded. “That's right. We have files too, you know.”

“Well,
our
files show he has a girl up there. Hazel something. They haven't seen each other for four years.”

Realization dawned in the warden's deep-set eyes. “The homing instinct
is
a strong one, isn't it?”

“Officer Crane?” The dark-haired young man smiled and held out a friendly hand. “I'm Roger Norris. I called this morning.”

The blocky policeman rose from his desk, grasping the hand firmly. “Oh, yes. I was told you'd be coming.” He looked at Norris' companion, another tall lad who looked more like a country boy, in spite of his sharp suit.

“This is my collaborator, Bob Macklin.” Norris indicated the other man. “We represent
Black Book Detective
magazine.”

“How d'you do?” Crane stood awkwardly, not sure whether to offer his hand to the other man. Macklin just smiled shyly. “Well, let's all sit down, shall we?”

Once they were seated, Crane focussed his attention on Norris, who had already shown himself to be the more gregarious of the two. “Welcome to Drumright, gentlemen. The chief tells me you want to interview somebody about this station.”

“Yes, that's right.” Norris drew a notepad from an inside pocket and began writing in it with a pencil stub. “As the man in charge of the station at night, I'm sure you've run into a great deal of criminal activity.”

The policeman shrugged modestly, but said nothing.

Norris went on. “Anyway, we at
Black Book
have noticed a significant upsurge in the number of bank holdups recently, particularly in this area. I understand a bank robber and murderer escaped from McAlester Penitentiary just two days ago.” He paused and looked up from his pad.

“You mean Virgil Ballard. Yes, I have a flier on him here somewhere.” He began shuffling through the untidy stacks of paper on his desk.

Norris held up a hand. “That won't be necessary,” he said. “We received one yesterday. The article Mr. Macklin and I are preparing will deal with the precautions that small constabularies such as your own are taking to apprehend fugitives such as Ballard.”

Crane smiled confidently. “We're quite capable of handling that scum here in Drumright.”

Macklin, the country boy, stiffened in his seat. “Yeah,” he snapped. “I'll bet you're good at handling scum.”

The officer winced at the unexpected retort, and was about to say something equally savage, when Roger Norris spoke in a soothing voice. “Don't pay any attention to my colleague, Officer Crane. I'm afraid he's one of those people who are fascinated by gangsters.” He turned to Macklin. “Bob, be quiet and let the officer talk.”

The other man seethed, but he didn't say anything.

“Now,” said Norris, flipping to a fresh page in the notepad, “about the crime-fighting techniques in Drumright.”

“I think you'll find that this station is as well-equipped to deal with your average holdup man as any. Better than most, in fact.” The policeman was still rankled by Macklin's outburst, but his confidence was returning.

Norris stopped writing and looked up. “Some of the bigger stations have machine guns.”

The officer nodded proudly. “We have machine guns. Bullet-proof vests, too.”

The reporters looked at each other. “Really?” said Norris, eyebrows raised. “Could we see them?”

“Sure. They're in the locker. Come on.” Crane got up and led the way to the rear of the station house, where a massive gun locker towered in the corner. He unlocked it with a key attached to his belt and swung open the door.

Norris whistled. A row of six brand-new Thompson submachine guns gleamed in the diffused light from the ceiling, their carved wooden grips cocked at an upward angle. On the shelf below them, arranged in an overlapping pattern, was an equal number of hefty-looking quilted vests which resembled the chest protectors worn by baseball catchers. Boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly in the bottom of the lockers, as were extra steel drums for the machine guns.

Norris didn't take his eyes from the guns as he asked, “Mind if I look at one?”

Crane smiled and lifted out one of the weapons, handing it carefully to the reporter. Norris stroked it and slid back the breech quite expertly.

“I see you know how to handle a rifle,” commented the officer.

“I've done some shooting, mostly on target ranges.” Norris let the action slam shut with a satisfying crack. He looked up. “Is it loaded now?”

“Yes, it is; be careful.”

“I will.” The reporter hugged the machine gun to his waist and swung the barrel into Crane's midsection. “Stick 'em up.”

The other man, Macklin, heaved a second gun from the locker, racked in a shell, and pointed it at the officer.

Crane hadn't yet grasped what was happening. “Be careful with those,” he admonished. “They're loaded.”

Macklin sneered. “Shut up and reach!”

Now the officer understood what was happening. His eyes swept the station hopefully, searching for another blue uniform like his own. There was none. Meekly, he raised his hands. “Who are you?”

“None of your business.” It was Macklin who had spoken. His face was hard and his voice had taken on a new authority. Balancing the Thompson on one forearm, he reached into the locker and hefted out another, which he tossed to his companion, and tucked yet another machine gun under his free arm. “Let's go.” He backed toward the door, keeping both weapons trained on the astonished officer.

Norris, equally armed, and with three extra drums of ammunition clapped beneath his right arm, hesitated. “What about the vests?”

“Fuck the vests,” shot the other. “Jesus Christ, we don't want no goddamn vests!” He began moving faster.

The other man backed out more slowly. Crane stared at the muzzles of the two machine guns as they moved away. Then the door slammed shut.

Outside the station, Alex Kern turned and picked up speed, trotting toward the white Buick coupe parked beside the curb. “Okay, let's take off.”

“Just a second.” Virgil Ballard leaned one of his machine guns against the nearby “No Parking” sign and wheeled to face the police station. He crouched and squeezed the other gun tighter against his hip.

Alex's eyes grew wide. “Virge! No!”

Virgil aimed the Thompson at the big front window and cut loose. Yellow flame stuttered from the barrel. The glass shivered and fell apart, sending a hail of glittering slivers onto the sidewalk. The black letters that spelled out “Drumright Police” separated and collapsed, the metal frame that held them wrenched free, and the whole mess caved inward, disappearing beneath the bottom edge of the window.

Inside the station, Officer Crane hit the floor just as a huge shard of glass knifed through the air where his head had been and shattered against the bare brick wall. He resolved to remain where he was until the commotion was over.

The pattern of bullets tripped up the outside wall, exploded a globe light above the front door, and ripped across the metal plaque marked “Police.” Then the gun jammed. Virgil was struggling with it when Alex punched the Buick's starter and brought the engine into action with a roar. Virgil gave up and climbed into the car. He leaned out and snatched the extra machine gun from the “No Parking” sign just as the wheels grabbed and began rolling.

Chapter Ten

Chester Hollis bounced and swayed with the gyrations of the old truck as it roared over the top of the hill and descended toward Picher. Seated as he was with his legs dangling off the back of the trailer, he contemplated the Oklahoma landscape as it receded rapidly before his eyes and wondered how much of it was going to be taken over by the banks by the end of the month. It was likely that his fellow oil workers in the box were thinking the same thing, because they, too, were silent for the most part, perhaps only half listening to Luke Shiver's harmonica as it trilled over “Red River Valley” near the front of the truck.

Chester himself had little to fear from the banks' proposed foreclosures, since he and his wife Flora had paid off the mortgage on their half acre on the other side of Picher over a year before, but many of his friends were not so fortunate. His best friends, the ones with whom he had gone to school so many years before, owned farmland that was mortgaged to the hilt on the edges of the vast oil fields. This was the property that would be snatched up by the panic-stricken banks, these the people who would be forced to lead a drifting, nomadic existence once their roots had been destroyed. It was enough to make him throw up his hands in despair, yet it was also enough to make him feel grateful, for the first time in his life, for the dirty, rigorous, but relatively secure position he held working for the oil company.

Luke must have noticed the melancholy that had settled over the tired group, for his harmonica stopped in the middle of a refrain and launched itself immediately into the livelier strains of “Ma, He's Making Eyes at Me.” The mood of the others began to perk up, and some of them joined in singing.

Chester formed the words in his head, but he didn't sing along. He was thinking about his friends. He watched the reddening sun as it descended over the distant mountain range, eyeing the shrinking space between them. It didn't look like it was planning to come up again.

The truck bounced to a sudden stop, almost tossing Chester and a few others off the back. He twisted and craned his neck so that he could see above the peeling wooden sideboards. They had stopped before the entrance to Picher's main street. Chester could see the blacktop just beyond the truck's discolored windshield, while the road behind the trailer was unpaved gravel. Something red glared and pulsated in the mouth of the wide street. “Cops,” commented a blackened worker at Chester's shoulder. “Don't tell me old Snail-ass is gettin' a ticket for speedin'!”

A state trooper appeared around the end of the trailer, wearing a buff-colored uniform and campaign hat. His right hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun. He stared into the oil workers' faces one by one. “You fellers got names?”

Chester led off with his full name, followed by the others. Luke Shivers took his harmonica out of his mouth just long enough to give his name to the trooper, then thrust it back against his lips and began a subdued version of “Yes, Sir, That's My Baby.”

The officer turned to the paunchy truck driver, who had just joined him. “That right?”

“Yes, sir, officer,” nodded the driver. “I've known most of these men all my life. They're all good old boys.”

“All right, then,” said the other. “You can take 'er on through. But don't stop. For nothing. These boys mean business.” He gave the trailer a smart slap, like a horse, and disappeared behind the sideboard. The driver followed him.

While the other workers engaged in speculation among themselves over what was transpiring, Chester strained his ears to hear what the driver and the policeman were saying. The driver swore once, good-naturedly, and the other said something that sounded like “Ballard,” but that was all Chester could hear. The name meant nothing to him.

The engine growled, turned over, and the truck jolted into motion, passing the stationary police car as its master stood beside it with one foot propped up on the dusty running board. There was another marked car on the opposite side of the street, and Chester noticed a group of uniformed men standing in the doorway of the Picher Print shop, their shadows stretching to the middle of the street in the late afternoon sun. Something was about to happen. He couldn't help but wonder what it was.

As the truck rumbled past the cafe, Chester made up his mind. He snatched up his black lunch pail and hopped off the end of the trailer.

“Hey, Chester!” hollered one of the oil workers from inside the box. “Where you goin'?”

Chester cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back: “Get me a bite to eat! You guys go on!” He waved and stepped into the little cafe.

The skinny cook looked up from the counter and smiled as Chester entered, her buck teeth showing over her lower lip. “Hi, there, Mr. Hollis,” she said. “Ain't seen you since God knows when.”

Chester smiled back. “Cuppa coffee, Amy, please,” he said, and took a stool that afforded him a good view through the window.

Hazel had seen the state trooper before he came through the door of the print shop downstairs. He had paused by his car as the big truck pulled away, then turned and pushed his way through the other three officers positioned in the doorway of the brick building in which she kept her apartment.