Counting coup, p.13
Counting Coup, page 13
Oh, Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, he thought, freezing where he was, then working up the courage to take a few more steps down through the woods to gain a view of the highway. It was true … the worst. A green and white state trooper car was parked behind the Caddy, a Plymouth by the looks of it, and its rotating beacon was flashing red and white light all over the road. There was a trooper standing beside the Caddy and talking to John, but Charlie couldn’t make out what they were saying.
You got to do something, he told himself, but he was shaking so hard he could hardly breathe. He felt as if he had to urinate, and he automatically tightened his sphincter and pressed his legs together.
What the hell am I supposed to do? Charlie asked himself. If I go down there, they’ll only get me, too, and what the hell good would that do? Shit, I could just stay here … He could tell John later that he had just plain blacked-out, and when he woke up the car was gone. Just like that. Then maybe he could help John out of the mess. For that matter, he could throw away his pride and call Stephen, who could find a lawyer for John and fix the whole thing up. But that little sonovabitch wouldn’t do anything for anybody. No, if Charlie was going to do anything, it had to be right now. After all, he had been a goddamn Marine. He had almost gotten his ass blown off at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, for Chrissakes.
He crawled down as quickly as he could, keeping to the cover, making very little noise as he neared the road. He could hear the police car’s motor running. He could also hear its radio, each call sharp with static. The trooper, who was in uniform, but wasn’t wearing his hat, stood just to the side of the Caddy’s door and was talking with John. John had to crane his neck to talk with the man.
“I don’t know where my license is,” John said. His voice was slurred. He must have been hitting the booze when Charlie left … before the trooper arrived. “… in fact, I can’t even remember if I have a license.”
“You don’t remember whether or not you have a driver’s license?” asked the trooper. “Do you have any identification? Are you telling me that you don’t have your license with you or that you don’t have one period?”
“I don’t know,” John said.
“Oh, Jesus,” the trooper complained, impatient. He shone a long, five cell kel-light into the car. “Don’t you carry a wallet with you?”
“Nope, I guess I don’t.”
“You know being a wise guy isn’t going to help you.”
“I’m not being a wise guy, your honor.”
The trooper shone his light into the car again, throwing the beam into the back seat and onto John’s duffel bag. “What’s in there? Would you have identification in there?”
“Maybe…”
“Well, then why don’t we take a look,” the trooper said. “And what’s that hanging from your mirror there?”
“It’s a peace pipe,” John said. “Keeps me sober and close to God.”
“Let’s see that, too.”
“I’m too old to smoke pot, your honor,” John said. “Of course, all us old Indians drink ourselves dead—you know, because of all those broken treaties and all that stuff. Well, there I done and told you, I let out the red man’s secret.”
“Just let me see the pipe.”
While the trooper inspected the pipe and helped John search his duffel bag, Charlie crawled down to the road. He came out on the shoulder just behind the police car. There was only one chance. If he fucked this one up, he would probably get himself killed. He shivered at the thought.
But he couldn’t let John down. Now, it wasn’t just John. If Charlie didn’t do this, didn’t at least take his shot, then he might as well be dead. He wouldn’t be able to face himself … ever. He knew that most of his bragging was all bullshit anyway, and even the truth was so old that it didn’t matter anymore to anyone.
Got to be right now! Charlie thought. Oh, God, please let the door be unlocked …
He sneaked around to the driver’s side of the trooper’s car. He was all hunkered over, so as not to be seen until the last possible moment. Then he grabbed the door handle—thank Christ it wasn’t locked—and threw himself into the car.
“Hey!” shouted the trooper, but Charlie was already turning the key in the ignition. In his nervousness, he forgot that the engine was already running, and the ignition made a terrible screeching noise. “Sonovabitch,” Charlie mumbled as he jerked the gear shift into “Drive.”
The trooper dropped his kel-light, which also functioned as a night stick, and was pointing a .357 Magnum right at Charlie’s face. “Freeze, asshole,” he shouted, “or I’m going to blow you a new one!” He was right in front of Charlie’s headlights, and Charlie could see the trooper’s high forehead, his short-cropped red hair and full mustache, his thin, angry face—and the bastard was big!
But the trooper had forgotten about John, who swung his duffel bag at him with all his weight behind it, knocking the trooper off balance. The pistol clattered on the pavement.
“Jesus Christ,” Charlie screamed, and he stepped on the accelerator and aimed that police car right at the trooper who was groping for his weapon. The trooper dove out of the way as Charlie brought the car to a screeching halt beside the Caddy. Charlie reached over to the passenger door and pulled the handle as he screamed, “John, get the fuck in here.”
But the door was locked. Charlie lost precious seconds as he fumbled it open. “Hurry up,” Charlie shouted. “He’s going to blow our heads off.” John grabbed his pipe and duffel, then jumped into the car, hitting his leg on the rocker panel. Charlie stomped the big Plymouth into overdrive, almost spilling John out of the car.
The trooper fired. The explosion was enormous; it hurt Charlie’s ears, and there was a flash of light as bright as lightning.
“Sweet Jesus!” Charlie cried, ducking behind the wheel.
“Watch the goddamned road,” John said.
Charlie screamed as another shot tore out a tail light and sent a tremor through the metal of the car. “He’s shooting at us!”
“He’s trying to shoot out the tires, you asshole,” John said. “We’re far enough away from him now. Calm yourself down. He could have just shot us down dead before, if he’d had a mind to, you know that?” John started laughing, but he didn’t slip off into becoming heyoka, and he said, “Boy, that poor fucker is going to have a lot of explaining to do.” John turned around in his seat and watched the road recede in tail-lit glow through the rear window. Then he swung his army bag past Charlie into the back seat.
“Watch it, I’m trying to drive,” Charlie said. “You still got your pipe?”
“It’s right here,” John said, hanging it on the rear-view mirror bracket. “I may be bad and mad, but I wasn’t going to leave a sacred pipe for a honky cop to display above his bar.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that about white people,” Charlie said.
“I suppose you’re right. I apologize.” Then John started laughing, but he might as well have been screaming because he was making such throat-tearing sounds. “We need a drink, and we don’t have anything! Goddammit, that trooper’s got himself a whole stash of fine booze.”
“Here,” Charlie said, reaching into his jacket pocket for the pint of whiskey he’d been hiding. “I always keep a little for a rainy day,” and then Charlie started laughing. He was safe. And he was driving a police car, and that big sonovabitch was back there with nothing but road and his big-dick cannon of a pistol. He opened the bottle and took a good swallow before giving it up to John, who would probably drain the whole damn thing without coming up for air. “Well, we’re not dead!” Charlie said, feeling the warmth of the whiskey expanding into his lungs, opening them up. He felt warmth in his face and immediately wanted another drink. “You said it, John. We’re fucking invulnerable, like on the goddamn television. You were right about that pipe. It’s a goddamn rabbit’s foot, is what it is.”
“Don’t talk too soon,” John said.
“What do you mean?”
“That trooper is right behind us. He’s in the Caddy.”
Charlie looked into the rear-view mirror, and sonovabitch if the Caddy wasn’t following them, blasting its horn as if it was in a wedding procession; and then there was another explosion and Charlie felt something hit the car. “If he hits the gas tank, we can call it a night. Jesus, he could blow us to kingdom come.”
“That’s the idea,” John said. “I think he’s a bit pissed by now.”
Another shot, but the Caddy was no match for the Plymouth’s souped-up engine.
“He’s falling behind,” Charlie said, and his hands were shaking on the steering wheel as if he’d been off the booze and taking that emphysema medicine that made him shake like an old man. Thank Christ, he said to himself.
“Shit, we forgot … the Caddy was running out of gas!” and John let out a shout and took another swallow from the bottle.
“Don’t drink it all,” Charlie said, reaching for it. And they polished it off and weaved back and forth on the highway, blowing the horn, and John figured out how to make the siren work.
They screamed down that highway, bathing the asphalt in flashing red light, sirens shrieking, as they soared like gods on a drunk.
8.
KNOCK YOURSELVES OUT, HONKIES!
“We need booze, and we need to get off the highway,” John said. He was wearing the trooper’s hat that had been left in the car; the top of the hat was caved in and wrinkled. John had sat on it when he jumped into the car. John wasn’t nearly as drunk as Charlie, who was driving, but he was drunk enough to be heyoka.
All Charlie could think about as he drove along was that he had done it—he had saved John’s ass. The debt was there, and there it was, no matter how much John high-talked. Charlie was golden. He was one beautiful man. He still had the piss and vinegar inside him. He was still a bull. Right now he could drop dead, and it would be fine. He smiled: Let the bastards try to close the coffin on him. The radio dispatcher was talking a mile a minute, and, amid bursts of static, other cars were answering. It was like a goddamn convention of talking robots, Charlie thought, though he had the greatest respect for law enforcement officials when he was straightened out and sober.
“Harrisburg to Five Oh Nine.”
“Five Oh Nine.”
“Report of domestic disturbance at 3721 Grover Street … husband threatening wife…”
Charlie took an exit off Route 81 and kept on 34, a two-lane highway where they would be less conspicuous. “Man, nobody’d know we weren’t troopers,” Charlie said. “We can do anything we want!”
John had turned off the siren and rotating beacon, but Charlie was driving as if the trooper was still shooting at him. “Slow it down,” John said as Charlie went over the shoulder trying to negotiate a sharp turn. “We’ve got to find some more to drink and a place to stay for the night. I’m not going to freeze my ass off in a car, or in a barn, or in a field.” He took a map out of the glove compartment and discovered a button inside the glove box. He pushed the button and the trunk lid flew up. “Shit,” he said, but Charlie didn’t seem to notice that he couldn’t see out of the rear-view mirror.
“We can rob another liquor store,” Charlie said, “but nothing’s open this late. We could just break through a window.”
“I’m not a goddamn criminal,” John said. “These things have to be done properly. If you can’t trade, you don’t do it.”
“We’ll leave something in return,” Charlie said. “Your hat, we can leave that,” and Charlie started laughing almost as crazily as John did at his worst and most heyoka moments.
John paid no attention to Charlie; he was carefully studying a map that seemed to take up his entire seat from his lap to the dashboard. He had turned on the overhead light, and Charlie complained because it was difficult to see the road with all that light inside. “I’ve got some people in Hancock, right over here,” John said, and he pointed to a town outlined in red at the junction between Routes 40 and 70. Charlie leaned over to look at the map, but he couldn’t make out one town or route from another. He slowed the car down to a crawl—he was looking for a good place to pee. He just hoped he could stand up long enough to empty his bladder.
Charlie pulled the car off to the side of the road. “After I pee, we’ll go visit your friends,” he said, suddenly dizzy. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t in motion—that’s what he told himself, anyway. Charlie sat quietly for a moment, his door cracked open to let in some fresh air. Maybe it’s the goddamn clean country air that’s making me dizzy, he thought. “Oh, the hell with it,” and he pushed the door open and got out of the car. Leaning against the front fender, he peed right onto the road. He concentrated on directing his stream of urine to make his initials, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid.
Everything seemed to be spinning and twisting around. But Charlie felt wonderful. He was light. He was golden. He whispered the word. “G-o-l-d-e-n.” Goddamn right, he told himself. He jumped as the dispatcher started talking and making static, and almost urinated on his shoe.
“Harrisburg to Five Oh Seven.”
After a long pause. “Five Oh Seven.”
“Check for car operating northbound on southbound lane on 83 about five miles south of 76 junction. Possible drunk driver…”
“Hey, did you hear that?” Charlie asked, zipping up his trousers. He had to get back into the car before he started feeling queasy—he could feel that coming on. But at least he wasn’t coughing.
John didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep and was snoring. Well, he had a lot to drink, Charlie thought, and being heyoka most of the time would probably tire anybody out. But Charlie had no idea where John’s friends lived; and if he, Charlie, tried to look at all those tiny letters on the map, he’d surely vomit. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to just get some sleep here, Charlie told himself. This didn’t seem to be a well-traveled road. Christ, there was barely anybody driving on it.
Then there was static and the now familiar voice of the dispatcher.
“Harrisburg to all troop cars and stations … prepare to copy File One, repeat, prepare to copy File One … Stolen during commission of assault on Pennsylvania trooper 1992 Plymouth police vehicle. Registration number five-oh-nine-one … vehicle is a marked Pennsylvania state police vehicle, fully equipped…”
“John, wake up!” Charlie shouted. “That’s us, they’re talking about us! We gotta do something.”
John woke up with a start, shook his head and blinked his eyes and mumbled something that Charlie couldn’t understand.
“Listen to this fucking thing, will you,” Charlie demanded. We’re never going to get out of this, he told himself. Jesus, I don’t want to go to jail …
The dispatcher was repeating the message: “… stolen during assault on Interstate 81, north of Shippensburg, last seen headed south traveling at a high rate of speed, operated by a Caucasian male of approximately sixty years of age. His companion is a male Native American of approximately the same age, gray hair, long, wearing…”
“Shit,” John said, and he started pushing the frequency selectors on the police radio. “It’s probably too late, but maybe we can jam the bastard … one of these buttons is the emergency frequency, and if we can jam that, we’ll jam the whole damn thing, nobody’ll be able to talk.”
“How’d you know about that?” Charlie asked.
“My son-in-law’s a cop. There, I think maybe it’s the last button.” He pressed it and picked up the microphone, holding down the talk switch. “Hello, you dumb sonovabitches,” he screamed into the mike. “Knock yourselves out, honkies!”
“Stop it,” Charlie said nervously. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
John covered the microphone’s grill and said, “You want every goddamned trooper in the state to hear you whining? I need a rubber band or a piece of tape or something to hold this thing down, and I’ll close it up in the glove compartment.” John fished around in the glove box, but there was nothing in there that he could use. He got out of the car and looked in the trunk, which was still open. He found a small roll of electrician’s tape in a gray tool-box; he also found two blankets, a pillow, and a riot gun with ammunition. He got back into the car, taped down the talk-switch, and wound the tape around the grill until it was covered and the tape used up. Then he put the mike into the glove box, which he jammed shut over the handset cord. After that he said, “Now look at all the stuff we got.”
“We don’t need a gun, for Chrissakes,” Charlie said.
“One never knows.” John was starting to act crazy again. “I’ve got a present for you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Charlie asked.
John took out a handful of miniature liquor bottles. “I’d forgotten I had these. Even though that guy at the liquor store was being so nice, I couldn’t help myself. You know how us Indians are. Anyway, I always thought these little bottles were cute.” He gave Charlie two tiny bottles of cognac. “That stuff’s good for your lungs,” he said. “It’ll stop your coughing better than your emphysema medicine. Cure pimples, too. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He laughed good-naturedly. He hadn’t reached the nasty, down-cycle side of being heyoka. He took one gulp and finished off a bottle of Cherry Herring. He made a sour face and tossed the bottle out the window. “You want me to drive … you’re still drunk.”
“I want you to get rid of the rifle, is what I want.”
“Okay, you’re right,” and John tossed the rifle out the window. “You want me to toss the pillows out, too?” Without waiting for a response, he started throwing out the pillows and blankets, and started pulling buttons off the radios. He pulled the channel selector from the CB set, and he threw out the radar unit, which was on top of the dashboard.
“All right, enough,” Charlie said. He finished off one of the tiny bottles of cognac and felt better, but goddamn if he wasn’t getting hungry; and if he didn’t get some sleep soon, he was probably just going to black out. “We need some candy bars,” Charlie said.
John made a face and said, “I’m going to drive. I’m wearing the hat.”
