Indecent Company

There was just enough streetlight for watching––he noticed her blue flip flops matched her sexy sundress.

————

Debi was in the passenger seat of Mac’s black Impala SS, a new ‘66 model. They were parked along the Mohawk River, near the bridge, in the valley. Crickets and peepers were screaming at each other for airtime.

A strong river odor hit Mac’s nostrils, along with Debi’s sweet-smelling perspiration. She wore a sheer cotton sundress, light blue with thin straps, and her small breasts flourished through the material––the dress had slid up past the middle of her suntanned thighs, and her long auburn hair was pulled to a loose ponytail.

“I heard about him through Jojo,” Debi said. “Jojo slept with him the first night he was in town. Said he was sexually perverted, and it disgusted her. He sounded indecent, and that sounded good to me.” Debi turned her head, looked out the open window into the darkness. She fell quiet. The night was hot, sticky.

“Where’d you meet him?” Irritation was in Mac’s voice.

“At The Pits,” Debi said. “There was a party going on.” Still looking out the window. “I was sitting on the hood of my Camaro near the creek, drinking a Bud. He came over. We started to talk. Ten minutes later we were at my place, in bed, with my head banging against the wall.”

“What was it that attracted you to that scum?” Mac asked with a sharp tone. “He’s a cruel bastard too. Look at what he did to Kenny.”

Debi said defensively, looking at Mac now. “He wasn’t cruel to me. And I’m sorry for what happen to Kenny, because he was just doing his dull security job. Besides, I heard Kenny drew first.” It sounded like she was blaming Kenny for his own murder.

“Kenny’s gun was still holstered when the cops arrived.” Mac was angry now. “Were you with him when he robbed Rexall’s, waiting outside in your car?”

“No, Mac, no. For Christ sakes! I would’ve never done anything like that.”

“But you knew about his plans,” Mac said with urgency.

“Ray said he was going out to get some whisky. That’s all I knew. I waited at my place. He never came back. Twenty minutes later, sirens were screaming all around, then I heard Kenny was killed. I didn’t know Ray had shot him.”

“So, what attracted you to this asshole?” Mac asked again. “Because it was obvious to Jojo that Ray Colt was rotten to the core.”

Debi stared through the windshield and said, “Ray would fuck me like there wasn’t enough time in this life to have all of me.” She squeezed her thighs together, her body shuddered. “He was the definition of indecent company, and I loved it.” Debi looked at Mac again, her bright amber eyes

glowing like bonfires. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing was heavy. “Give me a cigarette,” she whispered, then said, “We all need something, Mac, to take us out of our dull routines. Being with that hunk took me out of mine.” Mac handed her a Camel, struck a match. She inhaled, blew the smoke out the window. It disappeared in the darkness.

“When I find Ray Colt, I’m going to kill him for what he did to our friend,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.

“Mac Hunter, you’re a cop, for Christ sakes!” Debi had raised her voice. “You can’t just kill him to settle a personal score. You’re a New York State Detective, and not a goddamned hit man!”

“I’m off duty, on vacation, not carrying my badge,” he said with attitude. His voice raised, “Yeah, it’s personal! The way Colt murdered Kenny, one slug to the chest, three in the face—" He let the rest of that sentence hang like a sharp cutting pain.

“So, you’re gonna execute him?” Her shoulders shrugged. “Just like that?”

“Let’s call retributive justice.”

“For Christ sakes, Mac, just arrest him and bring him in,” Debi pleaded, then said, “Anyways, I told Ray about you and me, about us being together in high school. It’s kind of weird though, was like he knew all about you before he came to Morgan’s Landing. Says he hates cops.”

“That’s because he’s mental, Debi––where is he?” His tone was hard.

“I don’t know.” Mac knew she wasn’t lying. “He’s hiding out, somewhere,” she said. “Or he’s left Morgan’s Landing by now.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and Ray Colt will find me before I find him,” he said through clenched teeth.” Mac turned on the ignition. Debi wanted to go back to the Bowling Alley bar, to meet up with Jojo.

The Bowling Alley sat on East State Street, behind the Remington Arms factory. Mac drove South on Central Avenue to The Alleys. Debi’s maroon ’66 Camaro was there, in the parking lot, alongside several other cars.

“That’s Jojo’s car,” she said. “The ’64 Valiant. Powder blue, like her eyes.”

Mac nodded and said, “I’m staying at The Village Inn. You can reach me there.”

Debi got out of Mac’s Impala. He watched her walk across the road, was hard not to watch her. There was just enough streetlight for watching––he noticed her blue flipflops matched her sexy sundress. When she reached the barroom door, she turned around and gave him the finger with a cute smile behind it. The last Mac saw of Debi was her auburn hair, shimmering like a watery invitation to follow her. He should have. It might’ve been better for both of them.

Ray Colt was hiding behind the powder blue Valiant, his hand around Jojo’s throat, saliva spilling from her small mouth. A Ruger .38 was in his other hand. He watched Debi walk into The Alleys, watched Mac Hunter drive away. Ray stood up, pulled Jojo by her throat, opened the car door and shoved her in the front seat. She tried to scream, but he slapped her hard, knocked her dizzy. Blood splashed across her mouth like smeared lipstick.

Ray drove away from The Alleys, going South on Otsego Street, driving out of town to Foxes Road, to an abandon house along Foxes Creek, near the Cider Mill.

At the house, Ray yanked Jojo out of the Valiant, pulled her by her long brown hair. She fell, scrapped her knees on the gravel driveway. She was wearing a yellow sundress. It was torn and bloodied. In the house, Ray shoved Jojo into a broken-down lounge chair. She was petite, it was easy to throw her around. Blood ran from her knees down along the shins to her feet. Her one yellow flip flop, was scuffed and dirty, the other one was missing. Jojo’s mouth was swollen red from where Ray had smacked her at The Alleys, and her throat was bruised. Ray poured himself a glass of whisky––stood with his back to her. Jojo, fully conscious now, saw a jug of apple cider and a rusted butcher’s knife sitting on a table across the room. She turned her head away from the knife, and watched Ray. He turned facing Jojo, saw her big powder blue eyes starring him down. Her eyes were wet and anxious, and her hair was in disarray. Some of it hung over her face, sticking to her skin.

Ray said, “Just to quell your anxiety, Honey, about what’s happening here, you’re gonna die tonight, and you can thank Mac Hunter for that.” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “You were a lousy fuck anyway.” His tone was calm, his rugged face relaxed. In his right hand the black Ruger .38 hung down alongside his thigh, barrel aimed at the floor.

Hearing the words ‘you’re gonna die tonight’, adrenalin pumped through Jojo’s body with the sensation of liquid fire. She sprung from the lounge, like a bull breaking loose, and reached for the rusted knife across the room, on the table. Ray was faster and kicked her in the stomach. Jojo fell hard to her hands and knees, and puked on the floor, then she fell to her stomach, gagging. She hit the table going down, tipping it over, spilling the jug of cider on her legs. Laying there on the floor, Ray stood over Jojo, aimed the pistol at the back of her head and pulled the trigger. Jojo’s forehead disappeared like some horrific sleight of hand. He pulled the trigger again, three more times, grinning with satisfaction. Now Jojo’s anxiety was gone, Ray thought––and so was half of her head. He was feeling accomplished, and poured another whisky just to celebrate how well things were going.

Ray hid Jojo’s Valiant inside the barn in the back, then walked down Foxes Road in the dark. He spotted an old pickup truck in front of a house, a red FORD, rusted and dented. The house was dark inside. Ray hotwired the truck, drove it to The Alleys parking lot, and hung Jojo’s yellow flip flop on the antenna of Debi’s Camaro. Then he drove South on upper Otsego Street, where he spotted Mac Hunter in his black Impala, and Squirrel in his dark green Charger with white racing strips. They were headed towards the gorge.

When Mac left The Alleys he turned left off State Street onto Central Ave, then turned left on Main Street to the center of town. A dozen slumped-shouldered men were on the sidewalks, headed to the Remington Arms for the nightshift. It brought back memories of his deceased father, a factory worker.

By the time he had passed the grinding noise of the plant, hitting East Main Street, Mac was in third gear, clocking sixty––the road was empty, but the red lights and siren came like a sudden storm, engulfing him. He pulled over, killed the engine, and watched through the sideview mirror. He recognized the officer, went to school with him.

“What’s the hurry, boy?” the officer said. His tone irritated. “This 396 get a little anxious going the speed limit?”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. Wasn’t paying attention.” Mac pulled his head away from the window and disguised his voice.

“An ID and a registration.” He sounded pissed now.

Mac reached in the glove compartment, pulled his badge and ID, slapped them in the officer’s hand.

“Mac Hunter! Get the hell out of the car and give me a hug.” A country-boy twang was in his voice––his family were farmers.

“Hey, Squirrel. It’s been a while.” When Mac got out of the car, Bob “Squirrel” Jenkins nearly crushed him with excitement. Squirrel, standing six-five to Mac’s six, out muscled Mac by sixty pounds. Squirrel was like a granite statue that moved.

“Kenny’s mother called me,” he said after the excitement settled. “Asked for your Buffalo number. I had no choice.” He sounded apologetic.

“She called me.”

“Before or after his burial?”

“After.”

“You in town to see her?”

“No.”

“You’re not seeing her at all?” Squirrel’s head shook side to side, eyes buried in his cap visor shadow.

Mac said, “Maybe, after.”

“After what?” One of Squirrel’s hands was on the butt of his pistol, out of habit. The other on his big holster buckle, fingers tapping. “Come on, Mac, level with me.”

“After I’m finished.”

“Jesus, Mac! Did she ask you to hunt down Colt?” Tension was caught in Squirrel’s face, all muscular and hard. His Adam’s Apple bobbed a few times, like he was pumping for more words.

Mac’s eyes were on Squirrel’s now, steady, not answering the question. He pulled the pack of Camels from his pants pocket, shook a cig between his lips.

Squirrel nodded and said, “Follow me to the station, I’m off in five. We’ll head out to the

Black & White.”

Mac lit the cig and crawled into his Impala.

Squirrel, Kenny Hill, Debi Getman, Jojo Wirth and Mac had been friends since their early school days. Now, Kenny was dead, all too soon, all too young, and Ray Colt was going to pay.

Ray sat in the old pickup, on the far end of the parking lot, in the darkness, watching the Black & White. The .38 sitting on the seat between his legs, cylinder fully loaded again. It was a hot night. Ray was sweating terribly. He wiped his face with a dirty rag found on the truck floor, and then watched the barroom. A dozen men and women were inside, but he kept his focus on Squirrel. Ray put the truck in reverse and backed up. He pulled out of the parking lot, and drove slowly along the front of the Black & White. His eyes were fixed hard on Squirrel, watched him lift a beer to his mouth, head titled back, chest wide open. Mac Hunter sat next to him.

A single floor building with a tar and gravel roof, the Black & White sat alongside Steele Creek, south of Morgan’s Landing in the gorge. It had large double hung windows all around the front and sides, which made it easy to see inside.

Squirrel and Mac pulled up side by side into the gravel parking lot, crawled out of their cars, stood together looking inside the Black & White. Dave Mason was at the bar, sucking on a Bud. A half-eaten sandwich sat in front of him. Mason, a detective with MLPD, stood five eleven, lean and hard,

cool blue eyes, dark hair. He was four years older than Squirrel, Kenny and Mac. While standing outside, Mac noticed that an old red FORD pickup had pulled into the parking lot. It stopped at the far end, in the tree-shadowed darkness, just sitting there, motor idling. Mac let it go.

Squirrel and Mac walked into the bar, stood next to Mason. After the excitement over seeing each other, they took a table.

“What ‘cha got on Ray Colt?” Mac asked.

“Nothing. If you can believe that,” Dave said. He took a chug of his Bud, wiped his hand over his mouth. “But there’s one thing, Mac, Colt had an uncle he was close to, something like a father-figure. You arrested him for that triple murder, in ’59. He got the chair. A great father-figure, huh?”

Mac shook his head and said, “Pete Slough. Killed that young family, in Buffalo, a house robbery. After tracking Slough down, I had to knock him out to cuff him––was as vicious as an old snapping turtle.”

Dave nodded with a grin, then said in a somber tone, “The Rexall hit wasn’t robbery, nothing taken. I figured Kenny was Colt’s target.”

Mac said, “But the press printed a botched robbery.”

“That’s all we had at the time. I’m figuring Colt did his research, found out about you and your friends––I figure he’s here for payback.”

Mac said to Mason, “You ever see Colt?”

“Yeah, walking Otsego Street near Main, one time. Wide shoulders. Lean, muscular. Maybe Five-ten. Face like Burt Lancaster, messy hair like Robert Mitchum. mid-thirties.”

Mac said, “You guys ever talk to him?”

“Pulled him over, driving Debi’s Camaro,” Squirrel said. “Thought he jacked it. That was the day before he killed Kenny.”

“He have attitude?” Mac asked.

“Guy had charisma coming out his ass. Polite as a preacher. Told me a dirty joke about a farmer and a milking machine. Cracked me up, being a farmer and all.”

Mason said, “Colt knew who you were, Squirrel, your farmer background. He was playing with you.” Squirrel tightened his mouth, shook his head in disgust, over being duped.

Mac asked Mason, “How’d you find out who Colt was?”

“After Squirrel radioed his driver’s license to the station, I called Buffalo, asked for priors. There was nothing. Asked for felonious relatives. Don’t ask me why, just did. Pete Slough’s name came up.

Why are you here, Mac?” Mason asked with a pressing tone, his eyes were hard on Mac’s, muscles twitching along his cheeks. “You skipped Kenny’s funeral, for Christ sakes.” He was agitated.

The slug flew so close to Mac’s head, he heard it whiz by, could feel the heat. Shards of glass flew all around like bladed weapons, people hit the floor, women screamed, crawled under tables. Mac and Dave Mason were on their stomachs, both pulled pistols from their leg holsters, .32 calibers. Mac got up on his knees, looked out a window, saw the small red tail lights of a truck fading around a curve. Couldn’t get a make or color on it. Mac looked back at the table. Mason was standing next to Squirrel now, stone-faced, looking down at him. Squirrel’s arms hung along his sides, body slumped, legs apart, head thrown back. Blood ran from his throat. The back part of his neck was on the floor behind him.

The wall telephone was ringing and ringing, nobody answered it. Everybody was still on the floor, on their stomachs, hiding under tables. Mac finally answered it. Was the police station, for Detective Mason. Mac told everyone to go into the kitchen, in the back, and stay there. Dave took the call.

Dave said to Mac, “Debi called the station from The Alleys. Said Jojo’s in trouble. Said Jojo’s flip flop was hanging off her Camaro’s antenna, blood-smeared, and it smelled like apple cider.”

Dave Mason stayed at the Black & White, while Mac bolted out the door, hollering back at Mason, “The Cider Mill! Call for backup.”

The Impala screeched around the curves of the gorge, heading north to the Foxes Road turn off, then headed east on Foxes Road, towards The Cider Mill, screeching around more curves––the hot night-air heated up Mac’s face. After a few more screeching turns, he saw the dark outline of the rustic mill. He saw Debi’s Camaro parked in the driveway of the abandon house next door. Behind Debi’s Camaro was the old FORD pickup he saw parked at the Black & White. Mac stopped on the side of the road, killed the engine, killed the lights. He pulled his .38 Colt Special from the glove compartment, spun the cylinder, it was fully loaded. But all Mac needed was one shot, he was sure of that.

Debi entered the abandon house through the front door, holding a penlight. Her flip flops flapping, as she walked on down the moldy-smelling hallway and into the living room. The light beam moved like a desperate eye around the room, along the peeling wallpaper, then through another doorway and into a dilapidated kitchen. Then the light beam scanned the living room floor. Debi pulled for breath, gasped for air, her blood ran death-cold. She fell to her knees and dropped the flashlight––it was aimed at what was left of Jojo’s head. She wanted to scream but a strong hand

covered her mouth and yanked her head back. A muscular arm was around her waist, pulling her up, dragging her down the hallway towards the front door. The hand tightened over her mouth and the arm tightened around her waist. Ray Colt carried Debi off the front porch and along a path that led to the Cider Mill, squeezing her waist with his arm. She could barely breath, exerting herself, trying to break away.

Ray said, “It’s a hot night, Honey, and you’re all worked up. Let’s go for a cool dip.” Debi’s eyes bulged out of her head like two separate creatures, head moving from side to side, trying to break from Ray’s hand that covered her mouth. Her legs kicked wildly at the air, while Ray carried her to the motionless water wheel, near the small dam that created eight-feet of water.

Colt said, “This-a gonna hurt me, Baby, losing a great fuck like you. But you’ll always be on my mind, Sweet Heart, always on my mind.” Then he laughed and said, “Maybe we should screw one more time, jus’ one more, Baby, to keep the memory fresh.”

Ray Colt’s round dark eyes were viper-cold.

Mac Hunter heard rustling through the woods along Foxes Creek. It was a moonless night, too dark to see. The rustling seemed to move towards the mill. He heard the snapping of branches, heavy breathing, the sounds of a whimpering muffled mouth, heard the pounding of his heart in his ears. His breathing was thick and fast. Mac stayed low, moving through the oaks and pine trees and the dogwood bushes, until he saw the dim lamp above to the water wheel. There was just enough light to see Ray Colt struggling with one hand to tie Debi to the wheel paddles, his other hand was still over her mouth––her head was pulled tight against Ray’s body. She dug her nails into his arm, legs kicking in the air, reaching for traction, while trying to bite his hand too. She was like a cornered bobcat, all teeth and claws. Needing two hands for the tying-job, Colt let go of her mouth. Debi let out a blood-curdling scream that seemed to shake the woods.

“Colt! That’s enough,” Mac yelled. He was twenty-feet away, moving fast down the path to the mill. His .38 aimed at Colts chest.

Colt let go of Debi, turned and aimed his .38 at Mac, but Debi shoved Colt with the force of an explosion. He flew backwards onto the wheel paddles, dropped his .38 in the water, was caught by the back of his belt to a protruding bolt. He struggled to pull free, cussing, yelling. Debi grabbed the break lever and released it. The rustic wheel moved in slow creaking motion. The turning wheel took Colt downward, screaming and kicking, until he disappeared into the black water. Debi pulled the break. The wheel stopped with Colt caught underwater. A cluster of air bubbles surfaced, then

another cluster followed, then more, until the bubbles stopped coming, and the water laid still and dark, like it was dead.

On the small wooden deck, Debi fell to her knees sobbing and shaking. Her blue sundress was filthy and one strap was broken, exposing one of her breasts, and one blue flip flop was missing. Mac was on the deck now, kneeling next to Debi. He pulled her into his body, held her tight. Her sobs and shaking jolted his body. He brushed loose hair from her sweaty face, while he looked down at the water, his heart raced like a turbulent wind. Mac’s pistol was still in his right hand.

“Jojo!” Debi cried out. “Oh, Jojo. No, no!” She broke down again, collapsing deeper into Mac’s body, almost lying down on the deck now. Her legs were scratched and bleeding.

“Where’s Jojo?” Mac asked with urgency. His voice was loud. “Where is she, Debi?”

“Dead. In the house, dead.” Her wet words gurgled up from her throat.

Ray Colt broke water-surface with the force of a submarine. He grabbed Debi’s ankle, held it with one hand, while the other gripped his pistol. It was aimed at Mac. Debi was screaming, struggling, clawing at the deck to stop from being dragged into the water. BLAM! Colt’s body flew backwards like somebody kicked him in the face. The slug entered through the front of his nose, exiting the rear of his head, taking a chunk of hairy skull with it. His body floated on the water, with Colt’s wide-open eyes frozen dead. Then he sank out of sight, while the blown-out chunk of his head stayed afloat on the blood-stained water, like a hairy creature, until it sank.

Sirens wailed along Foxes Road and red lights flashed their strobing jerkiness. There were a dozen headlights with glaring high beams. Mac watched six local and State Police cars pull into the Cider Mill parking lot. A swarm of cops ran towards the mill, shotguns in hands, with the metallic racking sound of loading the chambers.

Mac watched Detective Mason move fast along the path to the mill. Mason stopped when he saw Mac kneeling on the deck, holding Debi. She was shaking frantically, and a whimpering came deep from within her throat. It sounded like a suffering animal. Dave Mason nodded at Mac Hunter. Mac nodded back, then holstered his .38. Mason holstered his pistol, then noticed a pool of blood sitting on the water’s surface, glistening like dark cherry juice from the small light above the waterwheel.

It was a hot night, and after the shrieking sirens died off, the screeching crickets and peepers took back the airwaves.

By  D.A. Helmer

From: United States

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