David Corbett - The Devil’s Redhead

“Whoa, bub, the eyes, how about it?”

The kid stepped back and lowered the light. He was thin, edgy. Acne rippled across his cheeks. He wore a Raiders cap, brim pointed backwards. It was pulled down low on his head like he was defying someone to pull it off.

“You’re the one kept driving back and forth out here ’bout an hour ago,” the kid said. A nasal twang. “Figured you’d be back.”

“I’m not from out here,” Abatangelo said. “Easy to get lost.”

“What the hell you doing on my property?”

The statement had a defensive ring. This is no more your property, Abatangelo thought, than it is mine. But, given the bit with the phone, he presumed the owner would be out momentarily. Abatangelo patted the six-pack beside him. He’d passed a roadhouse on the Delta Highway just outside Oakley, the name came to him as he traded stares with the boy.

“I’m looking for a buddy of mine. Met him at The Wagon Wheel a few nights back. Told me if I had the inclination I ought to come on out, lift a few brews.”

“This friend, he got a name?”

Abatangelo nodded. “Know somebody who doesn’t?”

In the distance another truck approached, turning a bend and spewing gravel as it lurched up the side road toward them. The kid stepped back from the car, pointed the Maglite toward the oncoming truck and flashed it on and off three times. Abatangelo chuckled. All we need now, he thought, is a tree house and a secret sign. His palms were damp. A confrontation was on the way, an ugly one perhaps, and though he’d readied himself mentally his body rebelled. Sensing the need for a little stage business, he reached to the six-pack beside him and uncapped one of the beers. He’d taken three sips by the time his welcoming committee disembarked from the truck.

There were two of them, they carried shotguns and lumbered toward the car. Something in the way they ignored the pimply kid suggested they were brothers.

You’re a pleasant guy, he told himself. You’re the mildest man on the planet.

The two newcomers split up as they reached the car. One took the passenger side, lifting the barrel of his shotgun so it pointed directly at Abatangelo and pumping a round into the chamber as he took aim. The other one came around to the driver’s side. He had longish graying hair combed straight back, a sweater with holes in it. He seemed to be the oldest.

“You’re on private property,” he said.

“Hey,” Abatangelo said. “I was invited.”

“No one here invited you.”

“Wrong. Sorry, I don’t mean to differ, but wrong. I got explicit directions.” He gestured toward the one pointing his rifle. Middle child, he thought. No surprise he’d be the one most attached to his weapon. “Could you tell Sergeant York over there to chill? I’m not here to hassle anybody.”

“Too late for that,” the oldest said, and spat. “We’re already hassled.”

“Not by me.”

“He says he’s got a friend,” the kid interjected from behind. He’d been chewing his thumbnail. “Says they met at The Wagon Wheel.”

“You haven’t got any friends here,” the oldest one said, checking the inside of the car.

“That’s not my understanding,” Abatangelo said. He gestured to the one training his shotgun on him. “Come on, lighten up. What’s with you guys?”

“We’ve had poachers out here, if it’s any of your business. Squatters. Thieves.”

“Aha,” Abatangelo said. That’d be the story if the cops found his body out here. “Even so. All this- ”

“You don’t like it, turn around.”

Abatangelo took a sip from his beer. In the distance ahead, about a half mile away, he could see the glow of houselights crowning the first hill. He wondered if Shel was there.

“Like the young one said, I’m here to meet a friend.”

“Give me his name.”

Abatangelo considered the matter. He was getting nowhere. Time to risk a little. Calling to mind the name Shel had mentioned in her letter, he said, “Hank,” and took another sip of beer.

“You mean Frank,” the kid said.

Bingo.

“Do I?” Abatangelo offered an addled smile. “It was a wild night. Good thing I jotted the directions down or I would’ve fucked them up, too.”

The oldest one reached for the door handle, opened the door and said, “That’s it. Out.”

“Hey- ”

“Get your ass out of the car,” he shouted. He raised his own gun now, a reckless fury in his eyes.

Abatangelo lifted his hands away from his body. “Careful, friend.” He eased out from behind the wheel, set his feet onto the gravel, still showing his hands. “Let’s not overreact.”

The oldest, using the gun for a prod, forced Abatangelo to his knees, hands spread out to each side against the car. The shotgun barrel pressed against his neck. The middle child came around, muttering, “Sergeant York, huh? Fucking Sergeant York?” In the background, the youngest protested, saying, “Goddamn, Roy, no need to make a federal case. Let him get back in the car, get the fuck outta here.”

“Shut up,” the one called Roy said. Reaching inside the car, he removed the keys from the ignition, tossed them to the middle brother and said, “Check the car, Lyle.” Turning back to Abatangelo, he pressed the shotgun barrel harder into his neck. “Came out to pick up your stuff, right?”

“Listen,” Abatangelo began.

“The stuff old Frankie went and stole for you tonight.”

Abatangelo closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the side of the car. Good God, he thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The middle brother, the one called Lyle, was rifling the car. Scouring the glove compartment, he found only road maps, a tire pressure gauge, an old magnetized statue of St. Christopher and the registration. He removed the registration from its envelope, puzzled over it briefly, and called out, “Car belongs to a guy named…” He stared at the small piece of paper as though it were written in code.

“Dominic Napolitano,” Abatangelo said.

“That you?” Roy asked.

“No. A friend. Car’s borrowed.”

Roy gestured for Lyle to go on searching. Lyle tucked the registration in his pocket then went around back to check the trunk, lifting the spare to peer beneath it and rummaging through a box of rags.

“Nothing,” he shouted, slamming the trunk closed.

He came around front again. As Roy eased back with the gun, Lyle rifled Abatangelo’s pockets and came up with nothing but what was left of his kickout money. He counted it, showed it to Roy, then stuffed it in his pocket with the registration.

“Chump change,” Abatangelo said over his shoulder, grateful to have the gun barrel off his neck. “If I’m here to pick up something worth making this kind of noise over, how come all I’m carrying is chump change?”

“I can name a dozen reasons,” Roy said. “How come no ID? How come no wallet, even?”

Abatangelo made a point to meet Roy’s eye. It was clear now he’d be the one to decide things. “I tell you the truth,” Abatangelo said, “you’ll just jump to conclusions.”

“Will I now?”

“Look, I don’t know what Frank may have been up to, that’s the truth. I met him once, that’s it, at the Wagon Wheel. We shot the breeze.”

“Horseshit,” Lyle said.

Roy said, “About what?”

“About being in the joint.” Abatangelo turned a little further. “I’m fresh out. That’s why I don’t have ID.”

Roy thought it over a moment. “Frank offer you a job?”

“Not in so many words.”

“He’s lying,” Lyle said.

Addressing Roy, Abatangelo said, “You’re so bent about thievery, tell your brother to give me back my money.”