George Wier - The Last Call

“Some place, ain’t it?” Hank said.

I could smell the kitchen already, and knew the food was going to be good.

“You haven’t lived, Hank,” I said, “until you’ve tried pork chops that melt off the bone and collard greens that have been steeping since New Year’s.”

“Stop it, Bill,” Julie said. “Damn but I’m hungry.”

The proprietor was a heavyset black woman with a cherubic smile and wide eyes. She seemed pleased to see us. The menus were pieces of tan-colored stiff-backed paper run through a copy machine.

“What’ll you folks have to drink?” she said.

“Coffee,” Hank said. “All around.”

“Fine. Be just a minute.”

We spent a few minutes looking over the menu and discussing it. We were all looking forward to breakfast. It was too bad when we realized we wouldn’t be getting any.

We heard the twang of the screen door opening and thought little of it at the moment. Julie was facing away from the door and I had my back almost directly to it, but Hank was sitting there looking over my shoulder, not saying a word.

“Howdy,” Hank said.

I became conscious of the gun pointed at my head and the other one, a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun leveled across the table at Hank.

“Ever’body just be cool,” the man with the shotgun said.

“Oh shit,” Julie said, then quickly: “Hi, Jake. Hi, Freddie.”

“Hi, yourself,” the one with the pistol aimed at me said.

“What can we do for you fellahs?” Hank asked, as calm as you please. He lifted his coffee cup and sipped.

“We’re taking you back, Miss Julie,” Jake with the shotgun said.

“Oh,” Julie said. “I’m going back, alright. But it’s to get Jessica out of there.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” the other one-Freddie-said.

“What the hell?” Three plates shattered on the hardwood floor almost simultaneously. Our waitress had picked the wrong moment to come out of the kitchen.

The two guns swung to cover her and the shotgun discharged across the table. A hole about a foot wide appeared in the back of a chair one table over and the chair flew end over end.

“Shit,” Hank yelled.

Pistol-toting Freddie got my left elbow in his gut just as his gun swung back toward me. The pistol butt almost connected with my head, but I ducked just in time.

I was dimly aware of several things going on at once: first, that I couldn’t hear all that well, second, that Hank was already out of his chair and grappling with the shotgun, that our waitress was screaming her fool head off and that Julie was using Jake-shotgun boy-as a punching bag.

I had my legs under me and sudden adrenaline working in my favor. As Freddie bent double I launched myself at him with all my weight. The chair underneath me toppled as I left it and I came down on top of him, hard.

I had the wrist from his gun hand in my grip and I slammed it hard into the floor. The pistol, an old Luger, dislodged from his fingers and rattled across the floor.

“You sonuvabitch,” he said. I felt a stinging sensation upside my face. He’d cuffed me a good one.

I reached up, grabbed a handful of greasy hair and forced his head down into the floor, once, twice. After the second time around he stopped moving.

The table where we’d been sitting toppled over and came down on my foot, the one that had been hit by Jake and Freddie’s truck. For an instant I felt the most exquisite, keen-edged, electric-blue pain.

I bit down hard into my lip to keep from screaming, rolled over onto my back and yanked my pulsing foot from underneath the table. A ketchup bottle rolled past my ear.

The tableau going on was one for the scrapbook. Hank had his hands around the shotgun between Jake’s hands, each engaged in a tug-of-war to the death. Julie was on Jake’s back with her hands dug into his face and neck.

“Stupid ass,” she kept saying. “Stupid ass stupid ass stupid ass.”

Hank let go with his right hand, clenched it into a fist and drove it three times in rapid succession into Jake’s nose, cheek and mouth. Jake’s lip split and a tooth tumbled backwards into his mouth. Blood began to flow even as Jake let go of the shotgun and rocked backwards. I noted surprise on Julie’s face-her mouth framed an “Oh!” that I never heard as she fell back underneath Jake.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Ohhhh,” Julie moaned. “My head.”

Hank ran his fingers through her head, feeling.

“She’s got a pretty good knot back here,” he said, “but she should be fine. Wait a minute. I know an old Indian trick. Bill, check on the waitress. She disappeared. I’m hoping she hasn’t called the cops yet.”

“Will do,” I said. I left the two of them there and went back toward the kitchen.

Just as I was about to enter, a tall black man came out. He had a long-barreled twelve gauge shotgun in his hands.

“Whoa there,” I said. “We took their guns away from them.”

“What kinda devilment you brought into my ‘stablishment?” he shouted at me. He raised the shotgun, leveled it at me point blank.

“Nothing,” I said. The hole at the business end was suddenly a cavern hanging in front of my face. A cavern from which quick death in a whirlwind of fire and blood might emerge at any second.

“Put the gun down, stupid ass,” I said.

He looked at me uncertainly.

I yawned.

The cavern went away, slowly.

“You got some kinda nerve,” he said. “Like I never seen.”

“Thanks,” I told him.

“You can call the cops after we leave. Just keep your gun trained on Frick and Frack there until the cops arrive. Tell them they tried to hold up the place, or whatever. I really don’t care what you tell them, just give us time to get out of here.”

I reached into my wallet and brought out five one hundred dollar bills.

“Here. This should cover the damage.”

“Shit,” he said. “Okay. You got it.” The man snatched the money from my hand.

I went back to help Hank get Julie to her feet.

“You doin’ okay?” I asked.

“Better,” she said.

“Let’s get outta here,” Hank said.

Hank took one long minute outside to pop the hood of Jake and Freddie’s pickup and remove a couple of plug wires from the distributor cap.

“If the cops don’t slow them down, then that will,” he said. He tossed the wires over the barbed wire fence at the rear of the place and out into the high weeds.

By my reckoning we still had about a hundred and fifty or so miles to go; from Wichita Falls to northwest of Childress, Texas, some eighty or so miles southeast of Amarillo as the crow flies.

“I have a friend who lives outside of Vernon,” Hank told me when we were well on our way. Wichita Falls had faded into gently rolling plains behind us and I found my ears were popping from the change in altitude. Sometimes it’s simply amazing to me just how far a fellow can go and still be in Texas.

“Are you sure now’s a good time to stop by and say howdy?” Julie asked him. She had stopped holding her head in her hands about twenty miles back. Maybe Hank’s old Indian trick had eased her concussion.

“I don’t want a visit, I want some supplies.”

“Oh,” she said.

The hint of an idea was beginning to form in my mind, and I wanted to take a little time and try to plan things out.

“Okay,” I began. “We’ll stop in Childress and try and get some lunch. Then we’ll get a motel room and-”

”And?” Julie asked.

“And we’ll have a little council of war.”

“Fine by me,” Hank said. “Except let’s stop in Quanah for lunch. It’s closer. I know my way around this part of the country a bit, you know. Also, we turn off before we get to Childress for my buddy. That’s where I get the supplies.”