Wanted (15 page)

As Jack heads back to his bedroom after dinner, I start going over every detail of how and when the lights inside my head started flashing. Because if I don't figure this out soon, I'm going to be left behind like a sissy. Since that boy can't do nothing without holding his mama's hand, it means I did something that opened the door for scairt little Jackrabbit to come in.

I was at the desk sitting and thinking about how to get to Texas when I first seen the lights. Could it be that I was homesick for Texas, and that made me lose myself for a few seconds? Nah, that's not it. I was hungry and I started remembering how Bonnie sweet-talked the pizza man into giving her a free slice. I let that sink in a few seconds. Could thinking about Bonnie make me lose my head?

If so, that's an easy fix. I done all the caterwaulering I need about Bonnie. If I want to stay a real man, I have to forget about her altogether, at least when I'm out working my new body. I call out to her, hoping somehow she can hear my thoughts, wherever she may be.
Sorry, doll, but I need to move on. Maybe I'll see you in heaven after my time is done here on Earth. Amen.

I think a bit longer, not settling on the first idea that comes to me, because that's how men fail. Being so hogsure of themselves that they don't look at all the options. Right before the switchover, I remember smelling the garlic and onions of the pizza. And the first time it happened, I smelled fresh cut grass, then it was the men's toilet water. So until I'm one hundred percent positive what's causing the change, I'll stay away from thinking about Bonnie and from smelling things. Hell, I'll stuff corks in my nose if I need to.

Jack Daniel sits at his desk and opens that writing contraption I was using earlier when I talked to Milo. A bit of despair hits me square in the chest. Looks like I ain't gonna change back anytime soon because sitting in his room writing words isn't going to scare him. Jack Daniel types and types, lickety split like he's a dang secretary, and then stares at the screen. When I read what's written at the top, I tune in real good. It's a newspaper with the headline “Ivy Methvin Dead” in big letters across the top. Luckily, the boy ain't a fast reader, so I can follow along.

Turns out Henry's father, Ivan Methvin, the dirty filthy squealer who set me up, got kilt by a hit-and-run driver in 1948. The article says the perpetrator never got caught. I chuckle when I read that most people think it was my kin or my sympathizers who did it. Thank you, secret avenger. I hope good luck shone down upon you all the rest of your days.

The boy clicks onto the pictures and they get real big on the screen. Henry Methvin looks exactly the way I remember him, strong as a bulldog with piercing blue eyes. Eyes I now want to poke out with a sharp stick and roast over a fire for what he done to me. But when I read a bit further, I'm giddy with happiness. Turns out Henry met as gruesome a death as me and Bonnie. Got run over by a train that took off right when he was scampering beneath it. Ha! Looks like God took care of my vengeance for me just fine.
Thank you, Lord!

My only perturbance is that I didn't get to do it myself.

My eyes get wide as pancakes when I see pictures of me and Bonnie—the ones we sent to the papers. There was the time I scooped her up in my arms like we was newlyweds. Pictures of me and Henry in our trench coats, our arms draped over each other's shoulders like we was best friends. God, I was stupider than a stump of wood. After some reminiscing, my eyes freeze on a large ad at the bottom. When I read what it says, I nearly wet myself from shock.

They got a whole museum about us? Pride springs forth from my innards as bright as the first day of spring. Right as I'm gloating about how lucky I am, horrible pictures loom big onto the screen—snapshots of my getaway car blown to pieces, my body lying sideways in the car, mouth open, blood everywhere. I wish I could look away, but I can't.

Jackrabbit scrawls something on a paper and holds it up alongside the writing contraption. There's an arrow pointing at my corpse. “You're dead. Stay that way.”

Have your fun now, Jack Daniel, because soon, you're all mine.

Looking at them pictures does make me realize how life can turn on a dime. One minute we was riding high, ready to blow through Texas and on to Missouri, and then next we was dead. Only a hair past twenty years old, the two of us. I get a pain in my chest thinking about it. But then I make myself cheer right back up. The Lord gave me a Second Coming, just like He'll have one day, so there ain't nothing to wail about.

At the bottom is a picture of me and Bonnie sitting together with our arms around each other. It says “Together Forever ~ May 23, 1934 ~ 9:10
A.M.
”

Something about that date irks me. But I don't have time to think because the fool shuts the lid and reaches for his communicating device. He holds it up to his ear, so it must be some sort of newfangled telephone. Course, I can't hear nothing anyhow. A minute later, he pushes a button and sets the contraption down. Lo and behold, the cockroach finally bathes.

As he washes up, I think about that date again, trying to figure out why it's getting under my skin. Did I get slaughtered on Mama's birthday? No, that was March 23rd, not May. Is May 23rd a holiday? I run through every holiday I know, and it ain't that neither. I try to block out everything and remember the numbers I memorized that Milo tole me.

5-2-3-9-10.

That's when I figure it out. The answer's as clear as if an angel brought me Jack Daniel's head on a silver platter. I'd fall to my knees and thank the Lord for providing me with the answer if I had my body back right now.

May 23, 1934 at 9:10
A.M.

The deadline is our dead time.

Hot damn! Now I know the truth! I'd bet anything that the thick-headed dimwit didn't pick up on that. God sent
me
that message, not him. God's trying to tell me that whoever has control of this body on the anniversary of my death wins the grand prize—L-I-F-E. Maybe we ain't got to share bodies no more. Out with the Jackrabbit, in with the Clydesdale.

It's now plain to see that G stands for Gibsland, which is where I aim to be when our deadline hits—in the same spot I died—and I'll need to be there for my un-dying, too. Hallelujah! Then I'll set forth on my task to end the lives of all the Methvin kin.

A niggling thought winds its way into my mind. Killing someone's grandkids ain't the same as sticking it to the one who brought you down. None of them was even alive at the time, so that don't seem right. Looks like I need to think a mite longer about what I want to do. I know one thing for certain—I ain't gonna live like dirt the way my folks did—always scrambling for money, never having enough to eat, having to move when we couldn't pay the rent. And while I didn't much like running from the laws my whole life, I did fancy being famous. Not even pitching woo with Bonnie in the back seat compares with the rush of pride I got whenever my name was bantered about by strangers. I almost think about Bonnie then, but catch myself. Better train myself now to deflect them thoughts whenever they hit me—like cheap bullets off of steel.

Since I been sent on a mission from God, I need to do something good for the world. Maybe I should spend my time eliminating the worthless bastards that hide behind their badges committing worse crimes than the henchmen they should be collaring. All I have to do is get friendly with some hammer and saws so they can tell me which ones among them went rotten.

Once I hunt down all the club-swinging coppers and dirthole lovin' prison guards, and wipe them from the face of the Earth, the world will thank me. Why, they'll erect a real museum about me—just me this time. Not just one about how I died, but showing all the things I did during my Second Coming. Folks will visit the Clyde Barrow Museum every year to talk about what a fine man I am. I can see it now. But the only way I can do the Lord's bidding is if Jack Daniel gets scairt again so I can push myself back into his body.

My
body.

The boy ain't out the shower five minutes before he's checking out the window again. If he thinks the cops are coming cuz of me clubbing that woman, he best be on his way. Because if I do take over his body, I'll fight to our death before I go to the Big House again. Not going to sit around and get humiliated by some fat-as-lard prison guard, that's for sure.

Jack Daniel runs around, shoving things into his pockets before he heads out to his sweet ride. He gets in and drives not even two blocks when he pulls over next to some bushes on a dead-end street. I'm kinda perplexed when he walks round to the back of the car. He pulls a fat marking pen out of his jacket pocket and kneels down 'til he's nose to nose with his license tag. He changes a P to a B and a 3 to an 8 before hopping back into the driver's seat. Well, I'll be danged! He ain't as dumb as I thought.

He drives for a while, following in a line, not changing lanes at all. He finally parks and heads into a shop with a coffee cup on the window. He orders something, a cup of joe I guess, but it's in a paper cup and has a lid on it, so I don't know for sure. He takes a seat at a little brown table with two chairs. He keeps looking around, checking his watch. A couple minutes later I want to cry out for joy when who should come in, but Twinkle herself!

When I see her, my heart beats a little faster. Damn, that girl looks fine with her tight clothes hugging them curves—nothing like the girls in my day. She's got on a red top that lets me get an eyeful of her luscious breasts along with black shorts that shows off those long sexy legs. Makes me want to tell her all the things I like about her if, no when, I get the chance.

She goes up to the counter to order herself a drink while the weaselly little boy stays put in his chair. Why, he's not a gentleman at all! Made her buy her own coffee—which costs nothing but a few cents. She must think he's a total flat tire. She finally gets her drink and sets down across from Jack Daniel—across from me—the diamond in her lip sparkling in the sun each time she moves her pretty little head.

If I was in charge of this date, I'd have already told Twinkle how swell she is and pulled her close so everyone knew she was my gal. I'd kiss her and whisper sweet things in her ear, just so I could see her smile. Wish she was smiling now, cuz she sure don't look very chipper. Course, meeting up with a Johnny-Come-Lately with sawdust for brains wouldn't make any dame light up, much less a swell one like Twinkle.

Jack Daniel must be flapping his gums a mile a minute cuz all Twinkle does is nod, and then nod some more, her face all twisted up like she missed her train and there ain't another coming anytime soon. I reckon Jack Daniel's going on about me and how I took him over. I wait and wait, hoping to see some flashing lights, but nothing. Maybe he's getting tougher, trying not to be scairt so easy. That's gonna make my job a tad harder, but I ain't worried. A chicken's still a chicken, even if it learns to bark. Why, he's so afraid of getting turned down by Twinkle, he don't even try to touch her. Stupid fool.

After what seems like forever, Twinkle slides her chair over closer and opens up a silver contraption—a lot like the one the boy had in his room. I want to hold her hand, to ask her all about her family, what she likes and doesn't like, but I have to settle for the heavenly view of her gorgeous bubs. Hard to avoid doing so since Jack Daniel keeps eyeing them every chance he gets. Twinkle types “getting rid of spirits living inside you” inside a little box and then starts talking and pointing to the screen, like she's explaining something. So she's a planner, just like me. She takes out a communicating device, something like Chickenshit has, but hers is red. Her thumbs start doing a jitterbug dance on top of the glass. Finally, Jack Daniel takes his eyes off her chest and looks at the writing contraption.

In big black letters across the top it says, “Half-Dead Society” with a picture of a ghastly creature jumping up and down, spreading his arms and legs. A jumping jack is what I think the maggot called it when they took us out in the yard for daily calisthenics. I stare at the creature, wondering what on Earth it is. The left half is a handsome fella in a suit and tie, a dapper dresser like myself, while the right half has a decaying face of an old man, wearing dirty, ripped clothes. Shiest, that thing is ugly. The whole thing don't make a lick of sense 'til I put two and two together. Can't believe I didn't catch on sooner. Jack and me is what they's calling a half-dead, and apparently, we're not the only ones.

Maybe I can get a few reliable ones that I can trust to keep their mouths shut to form a new gang with me. Why, we'll wipe out all the crooked guards and cops in no time. The Clyde Barrow Museum might be up sooner than I had hoped. Blinking words catch my eye.

Before I can read any farther, Jack Daniel pushes the screen away—prolly so I can't read it. The fool has some sense after all. Not as much as me though. If I play my cards right, then in two days' time when the deadline hits, I'll be in charge of our brand spankin' new life, ready to rid the world of crooked laws or anything else I please—like bringing Twinkle flowers and telling her that I'm sweet on her.