Strange Awakening by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 15
The next thing I knew Butch was in his brother’s old bedroom, grabbing my left foot and pulling it off the bed. He said; “Time to go, partner.”
“All right. All right. What time is it anyway?”
“It’s already after four.”
“For Christ’s sake, nobody else in the country is up yet.”
“That’s the point, genius. Let’s get some coffee and get moving.”
I didn’t have any good reason for feeling so tired. I’d been getting plenty of sleep lately. Maybe it was some survival instinct. I got more alert as we drank the coffee and remembered that I had not taken my medications for two days.
I said; “We have to first stop at my house and pick up my meds.”
“Fine. If we get moving, we should have plenty of time.”
I finished my cup as quickly as I could and then followed Butch out the back door. He brought his rifle and I brought my camera. Despite the darkness, we didn’t have any trouble getting through the deer trails. Clouds were still prevalent in the sky as I saw no stars. The wind was gusting between 10 and 20 miles per hour. When we got to my house I picked up my meds and saw that the phone had two messages on it. Both were from
Diane, yesterday and last night, expressing concern about my whereabouts. It was 2 AM Seattle time and Diane was no doubt asleep. I called her work number and left message. I said;
“Thanks for the concern. My new friend, Butch and I went to the bowling alley yesterday and by the time I got home, I was so tired, I went right to sleep. I’m taking my medications. Love you, Chubby.”
In assuring her, I reminded myself to take the meds and did. Butch said; “Chubby,” grinning at me.
I said; “Yeah, chubby.”
“Is she fat?”
“I don’t know.”
Butch had follow up questions; he chose to keep to himself, at least for now. We went back out re-crossing the bridge over the stream and went to our usual hiding spot in the bushes, 200
feet behind the yellow house. Like our prior early morning call, the house had all its lights on, but there were no cars in the driveway. We sat quietly there for half an hour watching and listening for any sign of life other than the resident black winged hunters. A drizzle started. I said; “It looks good.
Let’s go get the pictures. I don’t feel like getting soaked.”
It started to rain harder. We crossed the stream and proceeded to the house. Again, like yesterday, some windows were open leaving only a screen between us and the “evidence.” I took all
of my twelve allotted shots through the screen into the well lit room. It looked like the same photos were on the walls and tables. Butch said; “Now that we have those pictures, which I don’t really think will come out all that great, let’s try to get in and get a few originals.”
I questioningly said; “Okay. But, I wish you would have told me that you were up for breaking and entering earlier. I could have gotten these shots without having to go through a screen.”
He took out his keychain and wedged one of them into the space between the screen and the window’s wood frame. Without much difficulty, in a few tries, he was able to pop the screen.
He pulled it out and put it on the ground. He opened the window as far as it would go, put his gun on the inside floor and went in head first. I followed the same way. Our eyes became riveted to the pictures of young actors and actresses on the wall. He said; “I want to take at least three. Which ones, do you think, are the most vile?”
“I really can’t decide. Take any three.”
“Maybe, I’ll take all of them.”
As he started to reach for one, we heard a car come in the gravel driveway through the open window, which was now advertising a popped screen to whoever was in the car.
I said; “Oh, shit.”
He forgot about the pictures and said; “We’ve got to find a back door.” He left the room and entered a small hallway. We saw the door we needed and moved quickly to it.
The car in the driveway stopped. The driver was my portly old nemesis, carrying his companion rifle. He saw the screen leaning against the house and knew someone had been here or was still here. He sat in the car a few seconds to see if the visitor or visitors would do something stupid. Through the partially open driver’s side window he heard the back door open and quickly saw two figures running toward the stream in the rain. He got out of the car, took a few quick steps along the side of the house and saw us halfway to the stream. He put the rifle to his shoulder and fired three quick shots.
I didn’t feel anything, so I didn’t think I was hit and when I saw Butch not breaking stride thought that he was all right too. We got to the stream almost simultaneously. It was about three feet below ground level and was a temporary good cover. When Butch hit the water, which was running quickly because Of the rain, he stopped, crouched down and turned around. When I got in, a combination of the swiftly rushing stream and its slippery rocky bed made me fall over in it, my head temporarily going under. When I got up I saw my camera already ten feet away from me and quickly moving downstream.
The fat guy was running as best he could, toward us and when he
must have thought he saw something fired another shot in our general direction from about 75 feet. Butch elevated from his crouch, with his rifle to his shoulder, fired one shot and our corpulent friend dropped in a heap, not moving. The carcass was soon host to five bats, perhaps detecting a prized huge cockroach.
Butch said; “Let’s get out of here,” and climbed out of the stream to the wooded land with the deer trails behind it. He was on his belly looking at an immobile and confused me. He said; loudly: “C’mon.”
“I lost the fucking camera. Let’s go back and get the photos.”
“Are you going to get moving or not? The fat guy might be faking and there might be someone else in the car.” He started to crawl toward an area better covered by trees and I just imitated him. After we went about 30 feet in the mud he stopped and got up on his knees. He looked back and said; “It doesn’t look like anyone is following us. Let’s move it.”
We half walked, half ran, soggy terrain permitting. I could feel that the rain was hard enough to start washing most of the mud off me. We got back to Butch’s house about 6 AM, just as what passes for a sunrise on a cloudy, rainy day commenced.
We went to the back door, after passing through the 200
foot clearing behind his house, being swooped by only one bat.
His parents were not yet up, so we had the house to ourselves for a while. He said; “The first thing I’m doing is changing these clothes.”
“Lucky you, I didn’t bring a change with me.”
“I’ll give you some of mine.”
I thought we were similarly sized, he was 10-20 pounds heavier, but it’s close enough to get out of these absolutely soaked duds.
“Thanks, yeah, that’s good,” I said.
He got something out of drawers in his bedroom and I took them to his absent brother’s room.
I put on the stuff he gave me. The blue jeans were all right, but this has to be the weirdest and loudest shirt I ever had on. I looked at myself in the mirror on top of a large chest of drawers, focusing on the shirt. It was a simple button up with a collar, but the colors were a sight. The general maroon background, was interrupted by swirls of purple, jagged, geometric Art Deco red lines, a sandy bed with two green leaved palm trees growing out of it and the words “Welcome to La La Land” inscribed in a purple deeper than that of the swirls, near the bottom.
Butch opened the door and said; “What the hell are you doing? Admiring your ugly old ass? We’ve got serious things to go over. I’m in big trouble. Not you, fucking me. So let’s go out back where my folks won’t hear.”
I considered commenting on his taste in clothes, but refrained, initially, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but ultimately I decided that this shirt was so bad it had to be good, even though it was also two sizes too big for me. I was taking one last glance in the mirror when Butch said; “Come on already.”
“I’m right there. Damn, ten seconds isn’t going to make any difference.”
I followed him out to the backyard and saw the first light of the day, which must have sent the bat back home. A moderate rain continued, so we stayed under the overhang.
He agitatedly said; “This is murder, goddammit and we left the scene of the crime.”
“Yeah, right, so?”
“So? You get serious jail time in this country for that kind of shit. So what do we do about it? You know you’re an accessory, too.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I could say that I went walking with my nutty friend and that he shot my neighbor. And
my fat friend is gone. I’m in better shape than I have been in recent memory.”
“What?”
“Only kidding. Poor attempt at humor. I think this shirt is making me act crazy. Forget I said it. Maybe we should go report this to the cops right now and just tell them the truth.”
“You know what they think of us, don’t you?”
“Yes, but what other option do we have?”
When Butch didn’t have any answer, I continued; “We could do nothing, sit in my house a few days and watch what happens.
But, somebody else is going to show up there and find the body.
They could go to the cops or come looking for us, neither of which is any good for us.”
“We could go back there and bury it.”
“You want to do all that digging in rocky, clay soil. I don’t. Fuck that.”
“I don’t either. It’s almost impossible to do with shovels. And if we get caught doing that we’re dead, one way or another.”
“So, back to the beginning. Is there any good possible action? Maybe, when you kill somebody, there aren’t any. The best thing would be to cover our asses as best we can and that means going to the cops.”
“Maybe I didn’t kill him.”
I was quiet a few moments, pondering that one. I said;
“Then we’re liable to have a crew after us. If the guys there don’t have the balls to come after us, that woman who dresses like a witch or a dominatrix does.”
“A witch or what?”
“A witch in black leather.”
“How do you know she has the balls?”
‘I met her a few times.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. It didn’t seem important enough to go on forever about it. Besides, I bet you don’t tell me about all your girlfriends.”
Butch was again silent for a few seconds, but was stomping around a bit, kind of annoyed. He finally said; “Some of the things you say are just horse shit, so I’m going to ignore that part of it. What do you know about her?”
“We just had two or three two minute conversations when we accidentally met out walking. She basically told me that ‘If I know what’s good for me, I’ll stay away from her’. She flipped me off once or twice, too.”
“I’ll bet that’s not the first time that happened.”
I really didn’t recall any, but said; “No, it’s definitely not, but the other times it was for other reasons.”
Butch said; “Fuck it. Let’s say they’re coming after us.
What do we do then?”
“Either try to take them all out, not knowing how big the organization is or we try going to the cops.”
“And if we get in another shootout nothing good can come out of it.”
“Exactly, my like thinking friend, so we have to go to the cops no matter how you slice it.”
Butch, sat for the first time, on a white plastic outdoor chair. He had his hands folded and he looked at the ground, then the sky, then the ground, then the sky and finally said;
“We’re in deep shit, you know.”
“I won’t argue about that.”
“Let’s go to the fucking cops right now.” He got up and walked to the garage. I followed. He started up the 1972 bright purple Mustang and backed it into the driveway. I got into the passenger’s seat. He apparently was again going to take the long way around into town. I said; “You got it working again?”
“What does it look like, Holmes? We’re just going to tell them the truth, right.”
“Yeah, it’s the best and simplest way.”
The incessant rain started coming down in buckets. If I were driving I’d have pulled off the road to sit this one out, but Butch kept going. I didn’t say anything because I thought
he was a good enough driver to handle it and that was fine with me. Recent memory must have failed me for that one. Besides a car accident would be a small problem compared to what already existed. Nonetheless we successfully got to the police station and went in. The same girl I saw last time was sitting on a modern office seat in front of a computer. We were separated by glass with two holes, one for conversation, the lower for exchanging papers. When she saw me she said; “Don’t tell me.
You want to file another police report.”
I said; “You’re certainly on your game today. One small correction, this time it’s WE that want to file a police report.”
She gave us a bored look and said; “Okay, I’ll take it in a minute.” She made some entries into the computer and without looking up said; “Ready. Name please.”
Butch and I both answered at the same time with raised voices aimed at the talk hole in the window. We looked at each other and Butch nodded at me, saying; “Sounds like you’re famous here. You go first.”
I said; “Edward Jensen.” She took my address, phone number and date of birth.
She then asked if this would be a joint report and I said
“Yes.”
When she asked his name, my friend correctly said “Butch Walker.”
She asked; “Is Butch your real name?”
Butch paused a while, then said a very weak “Yes.”
She said; “Is that the name on your birth certificate?”
He paused again, then said; “No.”
She said; “Well, what name is there?”
Butch looked at me momentarily and then softly said
“Leslie.”
I couldn’t help smiling, looked at Butch and wiped my nose.
Then the lady behind the computer said; “What, I don’t think I heard you right.”
Butch looked around the area, presumably to see if anyone else was around and then loudly said; “Leslie.” Then he turned to me and said; “And if you tell anybody, I’ll.......”
I laughingly said; “It goes to the grave with me.”
Butch said; “This is one hell of a time to be talking about graves.”
She interrupted us saying; “Can I get the rest of the information?” Butch gave her his address, phone number and date of birth.
She looked at me and said; “Okay. What do you want to report this time?”
Butch said; “We want to report a dead body.”
She didn’t type anything, looked up and said; “Why didn’t you just call 911?”
Butch said; “I don’t know. Everything is happening so fast. Because, we’re the murderers.”
I interrupted him to say; “He’s the murderer. I’m only an accessory.”
Butch shot me a look. My old friend Sergeant Mobley entered the small room and said; “Are you two bothering my girl, here? Don’t you have anything to do today?”
Butch and I silently stared at the floor. I thought of saying that we’ve already done a lot today, but decided against it. Sergeant Mobley said; “Come into my office. I could use a good laugh while I drink my coffee.” He opened the door separating us, continued through another door and down a short hallway to his office. He entered, sat down in his chair, simultaneously gesturing toward the two seats on the opposite side, with his left hand. After we sat, he grabbed his full coffee mug with his right hand and again gestured with his left saying; “You’ve got a captive audience. Tell me what you want to report.”
Without any interruption Butch and I recounted the events of the morning, receiving a few sarcastic smiles.
Sgt. Mobley: laughed and said; “Butch, you have zero credibility around here. And you, Ed, have very little and the little you had is severely compromised by that shirt.”
I considered saying that it was Butch’s, but instead said, with a straight face; “It’s a special shirt. I wear it only on very festive occasions, like when I get involved in murder.”
Sgt. Mobley grimaced and said; “What the hell every made you buy it?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said; “It was on sale, 80%
off.”
Sgt. Mobley thought himself amusing when he replied; “You should have gotten a few. ‘La La Land’ seems to suit you.”
Butch and I weren’t sure which of us he was insulting and we looked at each other, shaking our heads slowly.
Sgt. Mobley looked out the window, noting that the rain had stopped and that we were beginning to get a bit of real sunshine. He said; “Tell you what. Don’t file this report now.
When a dead body is reported, you can’t imagine how many reports have to be filed and how many people get involved. Let’s take a drive out to Mason’s house and if we find the body, you can make your report then.”
Butch said; “Sounds fair to me.”
I nodded agreement. Sergeant Mobley finished the last of his coffee, made a few entries into his computer, apparently
bringing up on screen the beginning of our report. He said;
“Leslie..... Leslie?....... Didn’t your parents know what sex you were born into?”
Butch, half laughing and half embarrassed said; “You can call and ask them. They’re probably having breakfast right now.
I’ve often wanted to ask them that question myself. But, do me a favor; don’t tell anyone else.”
We all got up from our chairs and Sergeant Mobley led us to his car. We drove in silence.