"Sergeant Chip"

Laughin' Boy

2005 Wrapup  

Prague TravelBlog 2005 

April Fool's 2006 

Other Brad Dentons

Biography 

     Blackburn drove back across the bridge from Rock Island and saw the gibbous moon reflected in the black Mississippi. The twin moons had an odd reddish tint, so together, they were like bloodshot eyes watching him from both above and below. But he didn't think any other eyes had been watching him tonight. He hoped not, anyway.

     The river looked cold as steel, and Blackburn felt the same way. For one thing, the puke-green Ford Falcon he had stolen in Des Moines was the worst junker he had ever driven. And that was saying something. He wouldn't have minded so much if the heater had worked. But it didn't. There was just enough warmth seeping back from the engine to hint at potential comfort. And all that did was put Blackburn into a bad mood.

     But he had been in a bad mood the whole month of December. Ever since he'd left Kansas City, things had been going wrong. First, his Dodge Dart had thrown a rod just over the Iowa line. So he had slung his duffel over his shoulder, cradled Dog in his arms, and trudged northward on the I-35 shoulder, his balls aching from his vasectomy bruise, until a church van had stopped for him. By then he'd been so cold that he would have ridden with anyone, but by the time the van had reached Des Moines he'd been ready to strangle all six Baptists on board. They had yammered on about Jesus this and Jesus that for a solid hour -- and Blackburn had long ago heard all he would ever care to hear about that guy.

     But he had let the Baptists live. They had saved him from freezing his fingers or further damaging his balls, so listening to their sermon had been the price he'd had to pay. On the other hand, he hadn't felt obligated to give them any gas money. So he'd still had almost three hundred dollars of his Kansas City cash, and he and Dog had splurged on twenty hours of rest and warmth at a Best Western.

     Then, refreshed, he had stolen the Falcon from a used-car lot. It had been sitting unlocked with its key in the ignition, and a morose-looking fat dude had watched the theft from a corrugated-metal office without making a move. Blackburn hadn't questioned the gift horse at the time. But later, chugging eastward on U.S. Highway 6, he had realized that the used-car lot's theft insurance would probably pay more for the loss of the Falcon than a customer would have paid to own it. Besides its lack of a working heater, its windows leaked and its upholstery smelled like cat piss. Worst of all, its top speed was fifty-six miles per hour, and its transmission had a habit of popping from Drive to Low on a whim. The jolt sent Dog tumbling every time, and her response was to pee on the already-stinking seats to demonstrate her annoyance.

     So by the time Blackburn had coaxed the Falcon a hundred and sixty-five miles to Davenport, he had been ready for a longer rest. For a while, then, he and Dog would make their home at the Quad City Motor Court at the north end of town, on Highway 61. It was a dump, but it was a cheap place to stay while Blackburn acquired the cash for a better vehicle. He couldn't see himself driving the Falcon all the way to Chicago.

     And he didn't want to risk stealing a nicer car, because the highways between the Quad Cities and Chicago would be well-patrolled. It would be too much to bear to be busted, or to have to kill some cops, before reaching his destination. Because the more he thought about Chicago, the more he liked the thought of being there. For one thing, it would be the biggest city he had ever lived in, with lots of dark corners where he and Dog could hide. For another, it was Midwestern, so he would understand its inhabitants a whole lot better than he had understood those people in San Francisco. Also, he really wanted to try one of those big stuffed pizzas he had heard so much about.

     So, with the goal of being in Chicago by New Year's Eve, Blackburn had decided to make Davenport/Bettendorf/ Rock Island/Moline his home for the time being. But he didn't want "the time being" to last more than a few weeks, so he wouldn't get one of his usual fast-food jobs. Instead, he would acquire the funds he needed by illegal means. Sometimes that was what a situation required.

     Now, after just over two weeks in the Quad Cities, he was almost ready. The upscale neighborhoods in Rock Island had been fruitful, and the pawnbrokers in Davenport were discreet. Blackburn had the impression that this sort of cross-river commerce had been going on for a long time, and that everyone involved -- the pawnbrokers, insurance companies, and police departments -- all had an unspoken agreement about when to look the other way. A certain amount of larceny would be tolerated, because a certain portion of the local economy depended on it. That was true anywhere, but it might be easier to manage here than in most places . . . because no one expected four cities in two states to be able to coordinate their law-enforcement efforts anyway.

     Of course, there would be a limit. If anyone got too greedy, the various police forces might suddenly become quite efficient. So Blackburn would only steal enough to buy the cream-colored '76 Thunderbird he had spotted at Hawkeye Bob's Pre-Owned Vehicles on 4th Street in Davenport. It was marked at two thousand dollars. And now, as he drove back from his latest raid on Rock Island, he knew he was close to that total. Three big Victorian homes had been good to him tonight. They had been closed up and abandoned for the winter, so Blackburn had been able to take his time. Apparently, the houses' owners had remained home long enough for a traditional heartland Christmas, but had fled south immediately afterward.

     Or so Blackburn guessed. He didn't care where they had gone or why. All that mattered to him was that he could stroll through their homes and help himself to their gaudy crap with little fear of repercussion. Some of them wouldn't return home for months, and even then they might not notice their losses for a while. Blackburn was careful not to break any windows or locks when he could help it, and once inside he didn't go for the obvious items like TVs and stereos. Instead, he stuck to jewelry, silverware, and gold-plated knickknacks -- the sort of stuff that was worth cash at a pawn shop, but was almost useless in even a wealthy person's day-to-day life. So the thefts wouldn't all be reported in a clump, and the cops wouldn't realize that they had a new serial burglar in town until he wasn't in town anymore.

     Another night like tonight, Blackburn figured, and he would have his Thunderbird. Then he and Dog could be in Chicago for the dawn of 1983. But it would take some luck and some cooperation from the Davenport pawn shops. It was already Wednesday morning, and New Year's Eve was Friday night. He would have to hock tonight's take, make an educated guess about how many more houses to hit, and set off for another raid on Rock Island or Moline on Wednesday night. He would make his final pawnshop run on Thursday morning. Then, assuming he was over the two thousand dollar mark, he could have the Thunderbird by lunchtime. He would then collect Dog at the Motor Court and be in the Windy City by Thursday evening.

     If everything went well. Otherwise, Blackburn and Dog would be out of luck until next week, because a sign at Hawkeye Bob's said it would be closed from December 31 to January 3. And Blackburn really didn't want to steal the Thunderbird. It was nice and noticeable, so that meant paying for it. Or getting the wealthy farts in Rock Island to do it for him.

     Thinking about the Thunderbird made Blackburn want to make sure it was still waiting for him. So once the Falcon had chugged across the river to Bettendorf, Blackburn headed west into Davenport. There was little traffic after midnight, and the few cars on the street were all trailed by white wisps from their tailpipes. The air was still, but it was as cold as Blackburn had ever felt it in Kansas. And that was pretty damn cold. Last week's snow still covered the medians and embankments, reflecting the streetlights so River Drive was a wide, curving black strip in the center of a relentless whiteness. Out in the river, Arsenal Island slid by like an enormous tree-dotted iceberg.

     But even though it was freezing, Blackburn could see why some people liked it here. For a small metropolitan area, there was a lot of variety in the landscape and architecture. There were trees, hills, and beautiful old homes. And there was the undeniable allure of the Mississippi. But although he could understand the Quad Cities' charms, Blackburn knew this place wasn't for him. Despite its diversity, despite the river, and despite the fact that two of the four cities were in Illinois, he still had an overwhelming sense of being in Iowa. And that felt too much like Kansas. Too much like home.

     As the dam at the western tip of Arsenal Island receded on Blackburn's left, he hung a right up Brady and then turned left onto one-way 4th Street. A glance to the south now revealed no hint of the Mississippi. It might as well have been a thousand miles away. Instead there were two- and three-story brick buildings, the boarded-up ones looking as if they might crumble at any moment, the others looking sturdy but hollow. And they all looked cold, as if they had never held any more warmth inside their walls than Blackburn had inside the Falcon. He imagined that Chicago would be different. In Chicago, there had to be streets that stayed warm all night long.

     Ten blocks down, he came abreast of Hawkeye Bob's, a flat, clean lot of asphalt between a bail-bond office and an appliance store. The Thunderbird was still there, sitting toward the back of the lot next to the aluminum cube that was the sales office. The snow had been brushed from the car's roof and hood, and its creamy finish looked as smooth as a pretty girl's cheek. The moon had slid behind some clouds, but even the harsh glare of the mercury-vapor streetlights couldn't diminish the Thunderbird's beauty.

     Blackburn pulled the Falcon to the curb for a minute while he gazed at his heart's desire. He wasn't sure why he was so drawn to the Thunderbird, because he had no love for Fords in general. His experience with the Falcon had cemented that. But the Thunderbird was different. Behind its wheel, Blackburn imagined, he would be like a force of nature. Like a storm.

     He almost laughed at the thought. But his jaw was trembling from the cold, so all that came out was a shuddering wheeze. Now that the Falcon was standing still, no heat at all was being blown back from the engine. Blackburn had to get moving again. The Thunderbird was still there, and it would remain there until he was ready to liberate it. Otherwise, he would become seriously unhappy with the Quad Cities.

     He put the Falcon back into Drive. It lurched away from the curb, dropped into Low, and then clunked back into Drive. But at least it was moving. Blackburn turned south at the next cross street, then east onto one-way 3rd. It was time to get back to the Motor Court so he could let Dog out for a pee. Assuming that she hadn't already soaked the grungy brown carpet again. Dog wasn't quite full-grown, so she still had a lot of bad puppy-habits. And her previous owner -- whom Blackburn had left with a slug in his head and a stick of dynamite in his mouth -- hadn't taught her a thing. Blackburn had lost count of how many times he'd had to clean up after her. But she was worth the trouble, especially when she curled up against his chest at night. That went a long way toward banishing the December cold.

     Blackburn was thinking about that, about being warm again, when he saw the brightly lit shop ahead on his left. The windows glowed yellow, and a taupe Cadillac and a white Chevy van were parked on the street in front. The letters P-A-W-N burned above the door like red coals. The place was open. In the middle of the night. Blackburn couldn't believe it. He had made note of this shop before, in daylight, and it was on his list of places to hock his Rock Island goods. But he hadn't been inside yet, because it was at the end of the list along with a couple of other shops that hadn't looked too prosperous.

     Now, lit up and alive when everything around it was dark and dead, it looked like the most promising joint in town. It looked like glowing money.

     So Blackburn pulled over behind the van and switched off the Falcon, which dieseled and twitched before going silent. Dog would be all right for a bit longer. It wasn't as if she'd hold it in and suffer if she had to go. Besides, the chance to convert at least some of tonight's take into immediate cash was too appealing to pass up.

     He opened the duffel bag on the seat beside him, rooting under a few wadded T-shirts to sort through tonight's acquisitions. There was too much stuff to take into one store at one time, especially if he and the pawnbroker didn't already know each other. So he selected a gold-plated watch, a chunky Northwestern University class ring, and a white-gold man's wedding band. Some of the women's jewelry in the duffel was worth more, but hocking women's jewelry was too risky for an initial transaction. These three items would do for now. He stuffed them into a pocket of his jean jacket, opened the creaking Falcon door, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He put his duffel into the trunk so the rest of tonight's acquisitions would be out of sight, then stepped across to the shop's glass door.

     A hand-lettered sign on the door said that from December 27 through December 30, "Uncle Bill's Pawn" would have extended hours of 10:00 AM to 1:00 AM. So that explained it. Uncle Bill was staying open late to take advantage of certain folks' post-Christmas, pre-New-Year's need to hock. Certain folks like Blackburn.

     A cowbell clanked to announce him. At the far end of the narrow store, a heavy, balding, cigar-puffing man glanced toward him from behind a scarred wooden counter. He had been talking to a thin, dark man in an old Army jacket on this side of the counter, but now he took a moment to assess Blackburn.

     Blackburn wasn't worried. He kept himself clean and his hair cut short, but he took care not to dress too sharp. Pawnbrokers didn't give good deals to bums, but they didn't like fancy boys either. So Blackburn aimed down the middle: Black Nikes. Blue jeans with some fading, but no rips. A dark gray sweatshirt with minimal stains. A worn but clean denim jacket. All of which was the sort of clothing that happened to be ideal for breaking into houses, too. Which meant Blackburn was always dressed to do business, whatever it might be.

     "Buying or pawning?" the heavy man asked around his cigar.

     "Pawning," Blackburn said. "Got a watch and a couple of gold rings." He took a look around and saw that this end of the shop was stocked with a variety of tools. "Maybe buying, too, if you can cut me a deal."

     The heavy man waved at the overflowing shelves. "Make yourself at home. I'm Uncle Bill, so if there's a deal to be cut, I'm the man to do it. Be with you soon as I finish helping this gentleman."

     Blackburn nodded, then moved down a short side aisle stocked with chain saws on one side and automotive tools on the other. Odds were that the Thunderbird wouldn't have more than a tire tool and a jack included in its purchase price. If that. So Blackburn thought he might work out a trade for a few things here. He had never had adequate tools in any of his previous vehicles, including the Falcon, and he had regretted it more than once. It was not an experience he was willing to repeat with a car as fine as the Thunderbird.

     He picked up and examined a small air compressor that plugged into a car's cigarette lighter. And then he heard a metallic racking sound from the counter, and he flung the compressor away as he dropped to the floor.

     He wished he hadn't left his Colt Python under the Falcon's front seat. He wished he had tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans before coming inside. The sound he had just heard was a pump shotgun being cocked, and that was never a good sound to hear if you didn't have a weapon of your own. At least, that had been his experience.

     Someone yelled "The fuck!" and then the flying compressor hit a shelf of socket wrenches. More yells mingled with the clatter. Blackburn thought he could hear several male voices and a woman's, but he couldn't be sure because of the crashing wrenches and sockets. It sounded as if the voices were all between him and the shotgun, though, which meant he could probably make it out the door without getting shot. He took a deep breath and got ready to scramble.

     But then he heard Uncle Bill's voice as the last of the sockets bounced and rolled. "Jesus H. Christ!" Uncle Bill shouted. "It ain't loaded! I was just demonstrating that all the movin' parts work."

     Blackburn stayed down for a few more seconds to be on the safe side, but he began breathing normally again. Okay, this was a pawn shop. Pawn shops sold shotguns. No big deal.

     He stood up and looked over the shelves toward the counter. Uncle Bill was holding a 12-gauge hunting gun with the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, and both he and his customer were staring at Blackburn as if he had just farted in church.

     "I apologize," Blackburn said. "I knocked some tools off the shelf here. I'll pick them up."

     Uncle Bill blinked, then shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. I'll get 'em later. My fault for rackin' the pump when you weren't lookin'. It's a noise bound to provoke a response."

     "That's true," Blackburn said. But he still felt embarrassed. He should have known from the hollowness of the sound that there was no shell in the chamber.

     Uncle Bill glanced toward the east side of the store, at a U-shaped rack festooned with guitars. "You kids all right over there?"

     "Yeah," a young male voice answered. "We just thought somebody was gonna shoot us, is all."

     Blackburn peered between the hanging guitars, and he caught glimpses of three people he hadn't seen when he'd first come in. Two of them were just now rising from the floor. So Blackburn hadn't been the only one.

     Uncle Bill chuckled. "Ain't nobody gonna shoot you, Jason. Just relax."

     Uncle Bill and his customer resumed their examination of the shotgun, and the three people in the guitar cubbyhole began mumbling to each other. Blackburn turned away and picked up the tools he had knocked down, replacing them where he thought they belonged. He had decided not to trade for any of them. He would just see what cash he could get for the watch and rings, then clear out of here. The shotgun incident had left him feeling edgy. Besides, Dog still needed to be let out.

     When he had finished replacing the tools, he walked toward the counter, hoping that his approach would hurry up the current transaction. But Uncle Bill and his customer didn't even seem to notice him now. They were deep into the subjects of shot loads and full chokes.

     Blackburn paused, then looked into the guitar cubbyhole. All three of the people inside appeared to be teenagers, maybe sixteen to nineteen years old. Two were typical Midwestern-pale, stringy-haired males. The larger one had a wispy mustache, and the smaller one had Band-Aids on several fingers. Those were the only things about either of them that were notable.

     But the third, the girl, was stunning. She was dressed in the same uniform of patched jeans and oversized sweatshirt as the boys, but her clothes couldn't hide the fact that she was beautiful. She had huge brown eyes and short black hair that gleamed even in the dingy pawnshop light. Her skin looked creamy and smooth, like white chocolate. Like the paint on the Thunderbird. Blackburn was transfixed. He felt something stir, and was pleased that it didn't hurt. His vasectomy wound was almost completely healed.

     "What you lookin' at?" the mustached boy asked. Blackburn recognized his voice as belonging to the one Uncle Bill had called Jason. Jason was now attempting to speak in a belligerant snarl, but it came out nasal and whiny.

     "Sorry," Blackburn said. He didn't blame the kid. If he'd been with a girl like that, he'd be antagonistic toward staring strangers, too. "I was just looking at that guitar." It was a lie, but Blackburn thought it would help avoid further unpleasantness.

     "Yeah? Which one?" It was a challenge.

     Blackburn considered. There were too many witnesses to just break the kid's neck. But he didn't feel like backing off, either, so he stepped into the cubbyhole. "The one behind the lady."

     The other boy, the one without a mustache, reached up and touched a bright red guitar. "This Stratocaster?"

     "Yes." Sure, Blackburn thought. Why not?

     The boy nodded, looking wistful. "It's a '72. I like the big Strat headstock. Jason wants it, but it costs too much."

     The girl touched his shoulder. "Let's get out of the way so this guy can look at it, Gerald." She had a voice like warm honey.

     Gerald nodded, and he and the girl began to edge their way out of the cubbyhole. Jason grumbled and gave Blackburn an evil glare. But then he went with the others.

     Blackburn felt bad. He hadn't wanted to drive them off. Not the girl, anyway. "Don't go on my account," he said, following them out to the main aisle. "I was just looking."

     "Us too," the girl said.

     "That's all we ever do now," Jason muttered.

     Blackburn thought he saw the girl's shoulders tighten. He wasn't sure what nerve had been hit, but he wasn't able to find out because the thin, dark man who had been at the counter approached, cradling the shotgun.

     "Pardon me," the man said. His voice was thin and dark, too. "The clouds are moving away from the moon. I have to hurry."

     Blackburn stepped back toward the guitar cubbyhole to make room for the man to pass. None of the kids moved, though, and the man pushed past them, bumping Gerald aside and heading out the door. The cowbell clanged behind him.

     "Excuse you, jackoff!" Jason yelled after him.

     At that, Uncle Bill barked "Hey!" and the kids -- and Blackburn -- all turned toward him.

     "Hey what?" Jason said.

     Uncle Bill took his cigar from his mouth and pointed the glowing end at Jason. "You know what. It's fine with me if Amy brings you boys in so you can fool with the guitars, but don't be harassing my customers."

     "But the guy pushed Gerald," Jason whined. "Didn't you see it?"

     Uncle Bill replaced his cigar. "Nope."

     Amy looked back toward the door. "He said something about the moon," she said. Then she turned to Blackburn. "Did you hear what it was?"

     Blackburn was glad to have her attention, if only for a moment. "Something about the clouds moving, so he had to hurry. It was like he didn't want to see the moon."

     Amy shook her head. "Just the opposite, I think." She was almost whispering.

     Blackburn was about to ask what she meant, but Uncle Bill spoke again before he had a chance.

     "You ready to show me somethin', sir?" Uncle Bill asked. "Or are you occupied?"

     Blackburn wanted to be annoyed, but Uncle Bill had a point. This was a place of business. So he gave Amy a polite smile and approached the counter. The teenagers returned to the guitar cubbyhole.

     "Let's see what you've got," Uncle Bill said.

     Blackburn took out the watch and rings and set them on the counter. "Cute kids," he said.

     Uncle Bill gave him a wry look. "If you say so, old timer. What are you, twenty?"

     "Twenty-four," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill snorted. Then he picked up the watch. "Goddamn. A gen-u-wine Rolex."

     Blackburn knew what the tone of Uncle Bill's "gen-u-wine" meant. It meant he knew the watch was stolen, but wanted a reason to pretend otherwise. "Uh-huh," Blackburn said. "I inherited it, but it's too fancy for me."

     Uncle Bill put the watch back down. "For me, too."

     Blackburn stiffened. "Pardon?"

     Uncle Bill puffed his cigar. "What I mean is, I can't give you a fair price. If you want to pawn it for some quick cash, I could go fifty bucks. Then you could maybe get it back in a few weeks."

     "I won't be here in a few weeks," Blackburn said. "I'm passing through. But I know this is worth more than fifty bucks, even as a hock."

     "That's my point," Uncle Bill said. "I can't sell it to the clientele I get in here. Not for a decent price. And it's too much trouble to middle-man it to another dealer. So my advice is, you go to one of the guys in town specializes in expensive items. There's a jeweler on North Harrison takes stuff like this."

     Blackburn was discouraged. "And the rings?"

     "Almost the same deal. I could go thirty for the two of 'em, with sincere apologies."

     At least Uncle Bill wasn't trying to pretend he was offering fair value. "Well, then," Blackburn said. "If you don't take watches and jewelry, what do you take?"

     Uncle Bill grinned, and his cigar bobbed. "Look around, son. Tools, guns, and the occasional gee-tar."

     It was beginning to look as if this wasn't a place where Blackburn could do business. "In other words, you deal in things folks actually use."

     "Yup. So if you ever happen to have a power drill or fine quality firearm to unload, I'm your boy."

     Blackburn perked up, and the thin twang of an unamplified electric guitar punctuated his next question. "What do you mean by 'fine quality' firearms?"

     Uncle Bill jerked a thumb at the wall behind him, which was festooned with rifles, shotguns, and pistols. "I mean well-made American weapons for serious hunting or home security. I mean Browning, Winchester, Colt, and Smith and Wesson. I guess I'd take an Uzi or a Glock, but those never seem to come in. But I won't take no cheap Asian knockoffs. I buy top quality, and I pay top dollar."

     Blackburn began to consider something he had never considered before. On the one hand, he didn't want to sell his Colt Python. On the other hand, if Uncle Bill really did pay top dollar, then the Python might make the difference between getting his Thunderbird by New Year's Eve or being stuck in the Quad Cities another two weeks.

     "Okay," he said, scooping up the watch and rings. "I might have something for you. Let me get it."

     "I close in fifteen minutes," Uncle Bill warned.

     "I'll be back in two. With a .357 Magnum Colt Python."

     The end of Uncle Bill's cigar glowed bright red. "Damn. I ain't had an actual Python in a coon's age. Only .357s I usually get are Smith & Wesson shitkickers. So, hell, if it's in good shape I might even want to keep it myself. Got a couple of speedloaders down here in my safe that'd go with it like nuts on a sundae."

     "Hang on, then."

     Blackburn turned and went past the guitar cubbyhole, and he couldn't help looking in at Amy as he did. She was watching Jason plink away on the red Strat, but she wasn't doing it with any love in her eyes. In fact, she looked a little bored. Blackburn took heart in that. He even let himself fantasize about driving her back to the Motor Court with him. She was probably eighteen. Pretty close, anyway. And she had seemed to like him, so --

     Then the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast out on the street jerked Blackburn back to the real world. So he resolved to kill whoever had done it. If he had the chance.

     But when he went outside, he saw it was too late. The moon had emerged from the clouds, and its weird ochre light mingled with the glow from the shop to reveal what had happened. The driver's door of the Chevy van was open, and the thin, dark-haired man who had bought the shotgun was slumped on the seat inside. He couldn't really be identified as "dark-haired" anymore, though, because the top of his head was gone, along with half of his face. Blackburn only knew who it was because of the Army jacket. And the shotgun. He recognized that too. The polished walnut stock was clamped between the man's knees, and his thumb was still on the trigger. The shotgun's muzzle was inside what was left of his mouth.

     Blackburn was perturbed. This guy had not been considerate. If he was going to blow off his own head, he could have at least gone home first. . . .

                      **********************

                                 Part Two

                                 Part Three