Ken Douglas - Ragged Man

“ Tubing, what is tubing?”

“ They sit in inner tubes, you know, those things they used to put inside of tires before they invented tubeless.” The woman had a smart mouth. She coughed, then continued. “They float down the river and drink beer all day long.”

“ Where are you located?” Storm had heard enough.

“ New Braunfels, near San Antonio.”

“ Thanks.” He hung up.

He stood for a moment in thought. Then he left the kitchen to explore the house. With the exception of the living room, all of the downstairs rooms, he counted ten, were empty. Upstairs only one of the six bedrooms was furnished, all the others had wallpaper or paint peeling off the walls, and the hardwood floors were in serious need of repair. Many of the upstairs window screens were torn or missing and the upstairs bathrooms, with the exception of the one off of the master bedroom, were not functioning. Danny Morrow had a long way to go to get his money back from this white elephant, he thought.

Irritated, because now he had to drive the rest of the night, he made his way down the stairs. Outside he heard a car door slam. Instinctively he knew it was the girl the note had been addressed to. He turned out the light and hastened out of the kitchen to the dark hallway, where he hid in the space under the stairs.

He was cramped, but from his darkened position he could see into the kitchen and he had a clear view of the back door. He waited silently, like in ambush. He heard footsteps on the back stairs, heard a key inserted into the lock, heard the door latch click and he saw the door open.

It was the girl from the Irish Pub, Susan. Of course, he should have made the connection earlier when he read the note. She was wearing the same white skirt, but she’d changed out of the peasant blouse that had revealed so much into one that had sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.

The girl went to the refrigerator, read the note, then opened the door. She took out a quart of chocolate milk and drank from the carton. After she finished it, she tossed the carton in a waste basket. Storm readied himself for the attack, but before he moved, she turned round again, closed the refrigerator and started in his direction. He looked at her pouting lips as she approached his hiding point, and he clenched his fists, biting into his tongue. Her lips were the color of a New Orleans Hurricane. She had Hurricane lips.

She came into the dark hallway and stopped, inches from his crouching form, searching for the light switch. Her skirt brushed against his face. He could kill her so easily, but he didn’t. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t look down and see him, a coward below the stairs.

She found the switch and the hallway burst into light, allowing Storm to take in every weave of the cotton fabric. He started to reach for her, but something held him back. She had Hurricane lips. Louise had Hurricane lips. In the bar, behind the stage light, her lips were lighter, but now he knew they were Hurricane red, that special red that till now he had only seen on his wife. He was powerless.

She moved away and mounted the stairs. He remained until she reached the top, then he allowed himself a breath. He waited till she went into the one furnished room up there and imagined that she was using the working bathroom, probably to take a shower.

When he thought she was safely out of earshot, he eased his cramped body out from under the stairs and silently made his way to the kitchen. He opened the door with a burglar’s soft touch and made his way out of the house.

He crossed the street, a man torn in half, and slid behind the wheel. The fire inside him raged, he wanted to go back to his room and sleep, but forces beyond his control were driving him on. He reached under the seat for the road atlas and turned on the map light.

New Braunfels was about thirty miles north of San Antonio. He lay back, closed his eyes and asked himself if driving all night to kill a man he didn’t know was what he wanted to do.

Danny Morrow had done nothing to him. In fact, he told himself, if Gordon and his gang hadn’t set up their underground network, he wouldn’t have had a job for the last fifteen years. It wasn’t their fault that they were too smart to get caught in the act. It wasn’t their fault that the crime they were committing wasn’t felonious enough to keep the police interested. It wasn’t their fault that collectors all over the country clamored for the bootlegs. And it wasn’t their fault that everybody in the record industry laughed at him behind his back.

But he hated being laughed at. He started the car and drove the night away and half the next day. He was tired and sleepy when he turned off the interstate, but he still managed to find the King’s Pride Inn in less than five minutes.

He stretched, yawned and stepped out of the cool air conditioned car into a hundred and three degree West Texas summer day, where breathing was the only thing one had to do to work up a sweat.

He undid the top buttons of his sport shirt and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt lousy. He hadn’t slept in over twenty hours. He hated the heat and he was beginning to question his actions. He was no longer sure he was fighting the good fight, but gritting his teeth, he made his way to the lobby.

He pushed open the glass door and again entered air conditioned comfort. And with the cold, the rightness of what he had done and what he was going to do flooded through him. The death of Gordon’s gang of four, followed by the death of Gordon himself would send a shock wave throughout the international bootleg community. Fear of finding themselves in the same shoes would send the other bootleggers scurrying for cover. Then, when the world was free of these record and CD pirates, he would finally be able to rest.

“ Can I help you?” He recognized the accent from the phone last night.

“ I’m dead dog tired and I need a room,” Storm said, putting on a smile.

“ Usually we’re booked for the summer, but we had a cancellation yesterday, so you’re in luck. One hundred and twenty a night.” The woman was older than God and her face was covered in rouge.

Storm dropped six twenties on the counter and jumped back when a large cockroach scurried over the bills.

“ Will I be sharing the room with his relatives?”

“ This isn’t the Hilton.” The rouge-faced woman scooped up his money, without asking for ID and handed him a key. “Room twelve, down the hall.” She didn’t ask why he had no bags, but said instead, “You’ll need a bathing suit if you want to go down the river.”

“ Where can I get one?”

“ Sporting goods store across the street.”

Storm thanked her and made his way to his room. The air conditioner didn’t work and he suspected that was the reason for the cancellation. He opened the sliding door and stepped out onto a fenced patio. The room next door had a makeshift clothes line with wet towels and bathing suits hanging on it. He reached over and took a black suit that looked like it might fit.

He was about to slide the door shut and take a shower when he heard a young girl’s voice call out, “Hurry up, Danny.”

He went out on the patio and looked over the fence. A young redhead in a bikini that matched her green eyes was loading the biggest inner tube he’d ever seen on the back of a fully restored ’65 Impala convertible. Another girl was rolling a similar tube toward the car. She was blond, thin, and looked like she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue. And then he saw Danny Morrow, with both arms wrapped around a tube.

“ Where’s Ronny?” the redhead asked.

“ Bathroom,” Morrow answered. “We’ll have to wait.”

Storm tore his clothes off, jumped into the stolen bathing suit, grabbed a tiny hotel towel and started for his car. But he tripped over a cooler in the hall, landing on the seedy carpet with several cold beers.