Our Lady Of The Blues
Book VII: The Heart Of The Matter
Yisraeli had made contact with one of them with whom he was having breakfast while hoping for Trueman and Zion to show up. His pretext for the meeting was market research.
The homo, Lips Carmody, was spilling out all his repressed needs to Our Lady who he thought would immediately go back to Escondido and fill them when Yehouda spotted Trueman on the other side of the highway as Showbaby drove into the lot.
‘Oh my god!’ He ejaculated.
‘What?’ Lips asked.
‘Do you see that sailor over there?’
‘He…he is one of the most savage homosexual baiters in San Diego.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘I do say. You would do the brotherhood a big service by keeping his weeny moving right out of Barstow.’
‘I will.’ Lips said getting up to match his action to his words.
He passed Showbaby on the way out. Show had delayed entering on a signal from Yisraeli.
As Carmody went out to hustle Trueman through town Yisreali and Showbaby went out to alert Dagger who was standing by his car.
‘That’s him in the sailor suit, Dagger. Here’s your other five hundred. I’ll send the rest to you in Bay City.’
‘Five hundred? Supposed to be a thousand.’
‘I was in a big hurry since you weren’t organzied. I must have grabbed five hundred by mistake.’ Yehouda stuffed five one hundred dollar bills into Dalton’s shirt pocket contemptuously. One might understand Our Lady’s wish to appear the Big Man but it was a mistake.
Dalton considered himself a man among men and he didn’t consider Yehouda a man. Dalton wouldn’t be belittled by a mere twit. Hadn’t he decked his sergeant, who was a real man, and done time in the brig like a man the Marines couldn’t handle?
Dalton spilled the bills back out of his pocket as contemptously as Yisraeli had put them there. At the same time he seized Our Lady by the throat lifting him off the ground. It might have been an interesting experience for Yehouda if Zion hadn’t been there.
Quickly scooping up the bills before the desert wind wafted them into the hills Show did everything he could to soothe Dalton. He didn’t want a scene in a parking lot that might bring the police. He added fifty dollars he had on him to the five hundred talking smoothly and rapidly. Always keep the other guy’s mind occupied by a ceaseless drone of bull patter. They listen rather than acting.
While Showbaby was pattering on Lips was harassing Trueman.
‘You better get out of town right now, buddy. We don’t want your kind around here.’
‘What kind is that? Sailors?’ Dewey asked dumbfounded by this guy’s hostility.
‘Don’t get cute with me. You know what I mean. I’ve heard about you.’
‘Dewey turned and walked a hundred yards away in an attempt to get away from Carmody. Lips pursued, still berating him. This happened several times until Dewey had traversed the little town and was near its Eastern limit. He had all but gotten out of town.
Somewhat satisfied Lips said: ‘You better be outta here, buddy. If i come back in an hour and you’re not gone I’ll have you arrested as a vagrant.’
‘A vagrant? You gotta be nuts. You can see I’m in uniform; therefore I have visible means of support.’
Men of Carmody’s stamp are not influenced by facts or logic.
‘An hour, wise mouth. You hear! One hour.’
Trueman didn’t believe him but he couldn’t account for his unbounded hostility either. And he was vulnerable. These were the times when sheriffs had little fiefdoms which they culd run without regard to law or outside interference. Many ran speed traps where hapless motorists were fleeced of large sums of money and sent packing. Not infrequently they never made it out of town under their own power. The Interstates would change all that in a few years, people shot through bypassing these petty tyrants.
Dewey did have the two hundred dollars on him. If picked up the bunko artists called cops would get it all. He would probably spend a couple days in jail then be sent back to San Diego and billed exorbitantly for the expense. No recourse either. Dewey became very alert to the fact that he was living on his wits. Not to mention his thumb.
Back at the motel, mutual threats having been exchanged Dalton took the five hundred fifty. Shaking his fist menacingly at Yehouda he shouted: ‘You better get the rest to me pronto or I’ll come back here and kill your shifty ass.’
A few minutes later he stopped in the middle of the highway throwing the door open: ‘Get in.’ He leered in menacing tones.
Hyperion To A Satyr
Dagger had a scary aspect. Dewey didn’t like his looks. He thought he recognized him from the motel parking lot where he had heard the ruckus and seen Dagger grab Our Lady by the throat. He decided to decline the ride even though certain arrest was awaiting him. But, out there on the highway etiquette requires a good reason for refusing a ride.
‘How far are you going?’ Dewey asked hoping for a short distance so he could decline.
‘Bay City.’ Dagger said with a confidential smile.
‘Bay City?’ Dewey thought, utterly taken back. Bay City, Michigan? He couldn’t imagine another Bay City out there in the desert so he got in.
‘Bay City, Michigan?’ Dewey asked incredulously.
‘I’m going to the Valley.’ Dewey replied awestricken at this good luck. At least, he thought, it would be a forty-eight hour trip from here.
‘I know.’ Dalton replied mysteriously.
Dewey, taken aback, looked sharply at Dalton: ‘What do you mean, you know?’
For answer Dalton rudely reached over and pushed down the lock. Accelerating sharply he said: ‘Don’t try to get out of the car if you don’t want to get hurt.’
Dewey pondered this remark thoughtfully. First the guy in Barstow says he’s heard of him and now this guy says he knows he’s going to the Valley. Strange, but following his own maxim that there’s nothing to worry about until it’s time to worry about it or, as the Irish proverb has it: There’s time enough to bid the devil good morning when you meet him. Dewey didn’t panic but as it was clear that push might come to shove he began to take stock of Dalton and his situation.
As he now studied the driver he saw a relatively good looking but crude, fellow. Not handsome in a gorgeous Cary Grant way but handsome enough to pass muster. However his features were brutish betraying not only a lack of education but a lack of sympathy for refinement or benevolence of any sort. Dalton did look like a murderous criminal which is why Dewey hesitated in the first place.
A pair of black motorcycle boots rested on the pedals topped by a pair of black denim trousers. Hoodlum tough guy dress.
A peculiar short sleeved canned pea green shirt with a pierced embroidery design on the sleeve ends covered a good but not overly developed torso. What, Dewey wondered, did that really very feminine shirt mean? Indecision he decided. When Dalton had grabbed Yisraeli by the throat standing at his full six foot three inches his presence had been enough to throw the fear of God into Our Lady. Dewey didn’t think he could win a face to face confrontation with such ferocity but that pea green shirt with the frilly cuffs showed Dagger could be manipulated.
Neverthless Dalton looked like the self-centered single minded ruffian he was.
Fortunately for Trueman Dalton was a brute, a mere belly with arms and legs. It’s not so much that he didn’t have mental capacity but he had been brought up to despise intelligence, education, study and diligence. He was what Daddy Dagger called a natural man. One would be tempted to say that he couldn’t read or write but he had passed the Navy intellegence tests to get into the Marines. Probably his recruiter gave the box A key.
It is certain Daddy Dagger couldn’t read or write; he was a real natural too.
That wasn’t because the Daggers were incapable but because they didn’t want to. They despised all the accoutrements of civilization except, of course, cars, guns and beer. They were the equivalent of the primitive man. The men of the Golden Cronian Age. They were what the Revolution aspired to turn all men into in an orgy of ‘equality.’
Equality. The central thesis of the Revolution is worth looking into.
As I said before the Cronian or Revolutionary consciousness is one of the four principal approaches to life. The other three being the Matriarchal, Patriarchal and Scientific. They have all existed coterminously from the beginning. The trails are quite clear if you’re attuned to following them. The central and uniting symbol of the Cronian consciousness is the Phrygian Cap.
The origin, history and meaning of the Cap has never, to my knowledge, been investigated. Its meaning is so obscure that there seems to be no handle with which to begin discussion. Nevertheless I will at least offer some tentative suggestions.
The cap is invariably red which is the color of stern justice as well as blood. There is no sterner justice than the shedding of blood.
In form the cap is a visorless cone bent in the middle so that the top or bell inclines toward the forehead. The cap was a characteristic of the ancient Phrygian people. Phrygia was the area of Anatolia between the coastal settlements of Troy and the North of the inland Hittite Empire.
The Phrygians were either expelled from or left the southern Danubian region to cross the Dardanelles settling in Anatolia. Although the knowledge of the Phrygians themselves if the sketchiest it is probable that they settled in Anatolia just before or during the hegemony of the Hittites. Most certainly displaced by the great migrations of the Aryans taking place at that time.
The evidence indicates that they were a people antecedent to the introduction of agriculture which they rejected preferring a reactionary existence as hunter gatherers. It may be conjectured that the agriculturists drove them from the Danubian Basin much as the sodbusters outsted the cattlemen in the US.
Once in Anatolia they continued their Cronian ways rejecting all the appurtenances of civilization. That may have included a rejection of Anatolian religious practices. A rejection of religion remaining a Cronian tenet to the present.
As to the origin of the Phrygian cap. The cap of divintity amongst the Hittites was a tall conical rimless cap. There is evidence that the Phrygians had a hand in the destruction of the Hittite Empire. As a gesture of contempt it is possible that the Phrygians wore the cap broken and bent forward as a sneer or rejection of divinity.
The earliest mention of the Phrygian cap that I know of occurs in the story of the Phrygian King Midas with his asses ears which occurs in Greek mythology.
One must remember that the Greek myths of the Bronze Age only began to be written down with Homer and Hesiod in perhaps the eighth century which was a full 300-800 years after the events they record. the rest were recorded mostly from 100 BC to 300 AD or even later so it may be assumed that not only did their recorders not have direct knowledge but that they had lost the key to their meaning. That means that they changed or edited the myths so that they had meaning for themselves.
Midas himself was the son of a Satyr and a goddess; thus his origins are definitely Cronian; couldn’t be clearer. In the myth, Marsyas, a Satyr challenges the God Apollo to a musical contest in an access of pride. Naturally Apollo won although he had to cheat to win. In the first face off Marsyas was judged the equal of Apollo. Apollo then challenged Marsyas to turn their intruments upside down and play a round that way. Well, as Apollo was playing the harp and Marsyas was playing the pipes it is not difficult to see who won that one.
As the penalty for his presumption Marsyas was flayed alive by Apollo.
During the contest Midas had taken the side of Marsyas for which Apollo punished him by giving him the ears of an ass. Thoroughly embarrassed by his condition it is said that Midas invented the Phrygian cap to conceal his ears.
Concealed beneath his cap the only person who knew Midas had asses ears was his barber. Midas swore him to absolute secrecy. The barber was bursting with his secret and had to tell somebody. He dug a hole by the river bank and sticking his head deep in the hole he whispered that Midas had asses ears.
He covered the hole up and walked away much relieved. However with the spring floods reeds grew over the hole and thus learned the secret. When the wind vibrated the reeds just right they could be heard to sing: King Midas has asses ears. Well, the secret was out, there was nothing left for Midas to do but kill himself which he did.
It seems clear from the myth that the Greeks considered the Phrygians spiritual competitors. The Trojans had been material competitors and they had been eliminated by the Trojan War. Spiritual competitors cannot be eliminated by physical means so the Greeks concocted a myth in which higher civilization as represented by Apollo destroyed the Cronian society in a spiritual contest.
To perpetuate the Greek victory the Cronians were characterized as asses and their key symbol the Phrygian Cap was belittled as a mere means of concealing the asses ears which they all had.
The rejection of civilization for some impossible golden age was silly in the eyes of the Greeks and has remained so to rational people down to the present time. There are many deprecating references to these impractical people in the literature of the ages. There are Roman references in which the Cronians are ridiculed for pursuing an impossible dream.
Nevertheless the attitude persisted clandestinely until the Revolution erupted in France in 1789. The Cronian day appeared to have come, they stepped out of the shadows. The French figure of Liberty wears a Phrygian Cap perched jauntily on her head. The Cronians have been very active since then around the world, not only in Europe. In America, in the form of the Masonic Illuminati, they were perceived as a serious threat in the years around 1800. The Civil War caps of the enlisted men are merely Phrygian Caps with the bell truncated and replaced by a flat surface to disguise their true nature. Thus one may assume that the Revolution was active in the War Between The States.
The Phrygian Cap played a role in the Revolution of 1917 in Russia. the ideals continue in various Red groups in existence today.
Their concept of absolute equality is as ridiculous today as it was in the early Stone Age. It is inherent in the genetic makeup of the male of the species to wish to dominate his fellow man. A man always feels he is entitled to a jot more than his fellows. Thus the competition starts to make sure one is not surpassed. Thus it has been, thus it is, thus it will always be. The problem is always who will be the first among equals.
People will not be absolutely equal. if we consider the two men in this car speeding across the desert floor, while they are of the same economic and political background one is superior to the other as Hyperion to a Satyr but the Satyr would never accept that decision.
In ancient Greek art the Cronians are portrayed as roving wild men wandering the glens and glades of the mountains depicted as Satyrs and Centaurs. They at that time and Duelin’ Dalton Dagger here were half man and half animal. Not that they were physical hybrids but their minds hadn’t developed enough to separate them from their bestial habits. They were animals with untrestrained bestial appetites and no mental self control. In the sense of Apollo’s doctrine of Everything in Measure, Nothing In Excess, and Know Thyself they were outside the pale. Like Midas they chose the inferiority of Marsyas’ efforts over the superior music of Apollo. They were goat men with or without the ass ears of Midas.
The Satyrs were not men in the original state like Dalton Dagger. They had more or less advanced with civilization, something like the American Indians versus the Whites. Their modern equivalents were good with guns, decent with cars, but only decent, and could swill an ocean of beer. From the outside to a not very discriminating eye they looked like ordinary men and women. But they had to be handled with discretion. Yisraeli hadn’t known the difference. Had it not been for the self-effacing discretion of Showbaby he would certainly have been severely beaten if not stomped to death. Dalton would have escaped too; the lines of guilt were too clearly drawn for anyone to turn him in.
It would also have taken a discriminating eye to have noticed the profound differences between Dalton and Trueman. Dewey was everything that Dalton should have been. But having been pushed down from childhood by people no better than Dalton but better dressed he was rising from the depths that concealed his true nature. Dewey was deeply imprinted in his face and posture with the brutalization of his youth.
Apart from the pimples which plagued him and repelled everybody there was a wild staring violence coupled with a doe like timidity to his countenance.
If physiognomy is destiny Dewey should have spent a few hours before a mirror adjusting his outer appearance to his inner reality.
It was that rising bubble syndrome. Dewey was in a state of slow becoming. If Dalton was the finished equivalent of a satyr Dewey was the developing equivalent of Themistocles, Pericles or ever Hyperion. Dewey’s mind aspired to the stars. Dalton’s was mired in his physical reality. Dewey revered all the attainments the Dagger family despised.
Disenfranchised, a lamb driven from the fold, a saint wandering in purgatory, an exile on Main Street, he nevertheless believed that by dint of application, hard work and honesty he could succeed not only in the material sense but attain an honored place in society. In other words, he was drunk on hope. His big disappointment would be to discover that society is not honorable. The pillars of society were made of India rubber. The really big men were merely Dalton Daggers in Brooks Brothers suits.
The utopian philosophers of the nineteenth century who filled many long and weighty tomes of sentimental ruminations about the causes of crime being poverty and degradation would have been startled if they had seen the objects of their pity come into their own in the twentieth century.
The causes they had ascribed to crime had all but disappeared but crime had grown exponentially. In those far off days they imagined that the ‘working man’, they saw as a distinct economic species, unoppressed by the need to slave long hours for low wages would emerge from that cocoon like a butterfly to flit about the libraries and museums in ardent longing to be equal with the refined speculators of thought.
In the prsent, fully able to indulge their ardent longing for refinement ‘working men’ long only for beer, popcorn, pornographic television and snow mobiles. Football, basketball and sports in general is the ‘culture’ the ‘working man’ aspires to.
Now that the ‘working man’ has time and money for museums and libraries they remain empty. Their only visitors are the same small minority that always inhabited them.
Zola, Hugo and Sue wouldn’t have known what to make of our Duelin’ Dalton Daggers. These redhots would have thrown their model into disarray. All their maunderings would turn to ashes in their mouths. All their compassion and pity for those innocents turned into criminals by a heartless society would be wasted. All those innocents weren’t turned into criminals they were criminals posing as innocents. Javert is the true hero of the nineteenth century not Jean Valjean.
If Dalton had wanted to read ‘Les Miserables’ or ‘Germinal’ or been capable of it, he would have recognized his fellow savages and broken down laughing at the maudlin descriptions of them. Hugo and Zola may have been well meaning fellows but their evaluation of mankind was hopelessly askew.
They should have known that a criminal ethic existed. They should have known that there were doctrinaire criminals just as there were doctrinaire liberals. Dalton Dagger was not a criminal for any other reason than that he saw the role as the accurate view of life. No other view made sense to him. Only fools could hold another view in his opinion.
The Good Father was wrong; there is such a thing as a bad boy. There are badmen and badwomen, bad families, even bad societies. They will never reconstruct themselves; it is a waste of time trying to reconstruct them. Henry Ford ruined his empire by benevolently giving ex-prisoners jobs; allowing them into his work force. They corrupted his workers turning Ford Motors nearly into a criminal organization. Tolerating them corrupts society.
There can only be political equality of the one man, one vote sort; there can be no absolute equality. The Revolution chases a chimera. The very nature of the masculine physical animal precludes such a possibility. The Animus demands precedence; it demands that all others be subordinate to it. The only thing that prevents its expression is the jealousy of other men. No one has the power to enforce dominance over his fellows so each man is compelled to seek the cooperation of others to achieve his goals. If not he will be defeated hand to hand or by the sabotage of the united group.
The Revolution only despises rewards for personal initiative which makes them feel inferior. As a defensive measure against inadequacy they seek to control the benefits of society and distribute the good things of this world on the basis of favoritism rather than initiative. That is the only way they can succeed. Equality for the Revolution is merely a Red Herring to delude the masses. Remember the very term ‘masses’ is a Red invention.
Dewey eyed this monster, this Dalton Dagger, for monster he was, trying to think of the best opening to penetrate his mind.
Dalton helped him along: ‘I’m Duelin’ Dalton Daggerze.’ He said out of the left side of his mouth facing full forward over the steering wheel while eyeing Dewey askance to the right. He had a way of pronouncing, or rather mispronouncing his name so that he andded an extra ZE as in Daggers-za.
‘How do you spell that?’ Dewey asked trying to organize the sounds in his mind.
‘Anyway I choose.’ Dagger said, evidently trying to establish physical intimidation.
‘Oh, to be sure.’ Dewey replied contemptuously matching the pea green shirt to the personality. Dalton though a non-entity in Dewey’s mind became manageable. ‘But, I mean, how did you spell it on your driver’s license?’
‘How do you know I got one?’ Dagger said stupidly, trying to evade a direct answer to a direct question which was common to his class.
‘Oh gee, I don’t know, will they sell a car to you without a driver’s license?’ Dewey replied nonchalantly, feigning picking something off the tip of his tongue then appearing to flick it into Dagger’s face.
Trueman was a little too cool for Dagger.
‘I told the Marines to spell it DAGGER.’ Dalton said still evading a direct answer in order to preserve his imagined superiority.
Dewey looked at his driver closely, eyed his haircut, there was that of the Marines about Dagger. Within a few weeks it would have disappeared completely but it was still there.
‘You don’t pronounce that Dagger?’ Dewey asked not trying to conceal his contempt.
‘I pronounce it Daggerze or any goddamn way I want. I’ll pronounce it Smith if it pleases me.’
‘Oh yeah, probably have to.’ Dewey sneered. ‘So tell me Daggerzzze.’ Dewey said insultingly, loathing the ignorance of the man. ‘You’re going home on leave to Bay City? That’s it?’
Dewey was jousting for intellectual preeminence to counter Dagger’s physical superiority which he keenly felt.
‘No! That’s not it!’ Dagger said in exaggerated tones.
‘What is it? You’re not patrolling the highway to help errant sailors. Are you?’
Dalton had expected to instill trembling fear into Dewey who was after all slight and unprepossessing. He didn’t like the parody and disrespect with which Trueman spoke to him.
‘I got me a dishonorable discharge from the Marines.’ Dalton said with as much pride as though he had engineered Grand Coulee Dam.
This was a completely unexpected reply. Dewey was flabbergasted. A DD was cause for shame and regret in his mind. He thought Dalton was using bravado to cover his himiliation.
‘A Dishonorable Discharge? They don’t just give those things out for no reason. What did you do?’
Getting a DD was not the easiest thing to do as Ponzi’s case showed. For the Navy to give up on a guy was a very serious matter. There were all kinds of discharges before you got to the bottom rung of Dishonorable.
‘I stomped the hell out of my Sergeant. Damn near killed him. When they asked if I had remorse I said hell no I wasn’t sorry. If I had the chance I’d do it again and finish the job.’
‘You stomped him? Why?’ Dewey now took Dalton seriously. He realized that he was in a car with a certified psycho. ‘Put me on, Dagger. You have to be crazy as hell to punch a Petty Officer.’
‘I didn’t punch him. I beat the hell out of him. Stomped the son-of-a-bitch after I knocked him down. Broke his nose and jaw for him and he probably sported black eyes for a month.’ Dagger grinned with fierce pride. ‘I would have killed him but they pulled me off.’
Dewey involuntarily shrunk within himself. He wasn’t sure that Dalton was telling the exact truth but if he was Dewey realized that he was in a car with a dangerous maniac who was, in effect, holding him prisoner.
‘Wow! They must have sent you directly to the brig. No passing GO there.’
‘Damn right they did.’ Dalton replied once again with a savage pride. ‘Just got out. That’s why I’m on my way back. My old man thinks I finally made the grade.’
‘You sound like it’s a good thing to go to the brig. I always thought the brig was a pretty rough place.’
‘Damn right it is. You gotta be tough. You gotta be a real man. You wouldn’t last a minute. Real men go to the brig rather than put up with the chicken shit crap they shovel at you.’
‘Guess I’m not a real man by your standards.’ Dewey laughed.
‘No, you’re not.’ Dalton said complacently. ‘Not many guys are. Hell, the Marines advertise they’re looking for a few good men but when they get ’em…’ He said jamming his thumb into his shirt to indicate himself. ‘…they don’t know what to do with ’em. So I showed ’em. I’ll take brig time and a DD any day than follow rules from some stupid Sergeant that I can stomp to shit.’
‘Yes, indeed! Hallelujah!’ Dewey thought. ‘There is something authentic in this guy’s manner. This guy is a total whacked out psycho.’
‘I guess you’re lucky he didn’t die.’ Dewey said lethargically so as not to arouse Duelin’ Dalton.
‘How’s that?’ Dalton asked maliciously.
‘Well, I mean you would have murdered him. They would have put you away for life.’
‘There ain’t a prison in the world that can hold Duelin’ Dalton Daggerze if he wants out. You ain’t never killed a man?’ Dalton asked suddenly remembering that Yisraeli had said that Dewey had killed his son.
‘Who me? Hell no, Dagger, why would I want to kill anybody?’
There was something authentic in Dewey’s tone that gave Dalton pause. He intuitively believed the sailor casting a pall of irresolution over his determination.
‘You have? You killed some one Dagger? When was that?’
‘Couple weeks ago.’
‘Oh yeah? Who and what for?’
‘The brig guard. He was a real asshole. Always used to go around shocking me with this electric cattle prod. Taught him though, didn’t I?’
Dewey stared out the side window thoughtfully. He remembered the story of the guy found in the surf in Tijuana. He dimly remembered that something had been stuck up the guy’s rectum. Dalton’s story could be true. He reflected on how Kanary had talked him into hitchhiking. He thought of a couple strange rides he’d gotten on his way to San Bernadino. He thought of the guy who had picked him up in the desert as though he had been looking for him. He remembered the very peculiar attitude of the stranger who had threatened him across Barstow; how Dalton had said ‘I know’ when Dewey said he was going to the Valley. Dewey had seen the contretemps in the parking lot between Yisraeli and Dagger and now he thought he recognized Dagger as the aggressive one. An aggressor who was now trying to keep Dewey prisoner in his car; kidnapping him in effect.
Dewey couldn’t know about Yisraeli or about what was happening in the Field to threaten his well being. He didn’t know that Dalton held a contract on his life. All he could do was Respond to the Challenge he saw before him. He thought he had better belittle Dalton a bit.
‘Yeah? What did you do blindside him when he wasn’t looking? Same as the Sergeant?’
Dalton came unglued. He seized the wheel convulsively looking menacingly at Dewey: ‘Blind sided him? Blind sided him?’ He shouted vehemently. ‘Duelin’ Dalton Daggerze don’t never blind side nobody. I stepped right out of ranks and popped that Sergeant. I invited I.P. Rivers down to Tiajuana for a carouse after I got out to show him I had no hard feelings, drove him out in the flats and challenged that faggot to a fight and beat him fair and square. I gave him a shock with the cattle prod where he wanted it most. Blind sided him?’
Dagger took his right hand off the wheel and shook his fist in Dewey’s face. ‘You better take that back.’
At the mention of the cattle prod Dewey clearly remembered the story of the sailor they found bumping up against the rocks in the surf with the cattle prod up his ass. He couldn’t believe that the killer had picked him up but he felt the danger.
‘OK, OK, OK. So if I’m wrong, I’m wrong but I’m not taking anything back. So you’re a mean motor scooter. Don’t pop a vein on me and run off the road.’
‘I’m a man not a coward,’ Duelin’ Dalton screamed.
‘No. No. Hell, no. You’ve got to be a tough guy to kill somebody, Dagger. No doubt about it.’ Dewey stared at Dalton in disbelief but showing no fear. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Dagger was telling the truth. Now his mind dwelt on how Dagger had slammed down the lock. His thoughts took a turn toward self-preservation. In defiance of Dalton he flipped the post up.
‘You better not be thinking of getting out.’ Dalton shouted.
‘I seldom jump out or cars doing eighty miles an hour Dagger but if I want out you sure as hell aren’t going to stop me. Give me land, lots of land: Know what I mean?’ Dewey sneered.
They had been racing across the Mojave’s bleak sere landscape. It was now late afternoon nearly forty-eight hours had passed and Dewey reflected that he hadn’t even yet cleared California.
They now approached the Highway Patrol checkpoint at Needles. At that time you had to be checked in and out of the Promised Land. If you had fruits or vegetables coming in you had to surrender them to the HWP. The notion was that California was light on bugs. They didn’t want to let any new ones in.
Going out they were checking for nuts, I pesume, and wanted to send them on their way.
‘Awright now, when we come to the this Highway Patrol station you better not try to get out and you better not try to signal to the cops. I’m warning you.’ Dalton menaced.
Dalton was projecting his designs on Dewey but Dewey was mystified by Dalton’s singular behavior.
‘Oh yeah. I’m going to get out and start hitchhiking right in front of the cops. I’ve got a ride but I’m going to get out and get arrested? I’ll tell you what Dalton, just keep heading East at eighty per and I’m with you all the way.’
Dewey was way behind time. He wasn’t worried about Dalton because he knew beyond question that Dalton wouldn’t attack him awares. Even though Dalton could have swept the desert with him he knew the man would not make a frontal assault. Even though Dalton’s words gave the impression that he had designs on Dewey he had no idea Dalton was commissioned to kill him.
Dalton gave the correct answers to the Highway Patrolman and they were excused form California. They sped across the line into Arizona. Dalton began to prepare Dewey for a demand for gas money.
‘Listen to the way this baby purrs.’
‘Yeah. Sounds good, Dagger. Real quiet.’
‘You don’t think this ’53 Olds came that way when I bought it do you?’
‘Don’t know. Are you a mechanic?’
‘Damn right I am. The best. There ain’t nothing I can’t fix in a car. Nothin’.’
‘Guess you take care of all the loose ends; nothin’ you don’t know? You’re a magno expert no doubt.’
‘I am. Oh sh…, look at that guage.’
‘Oh, you can read guages too?’
‘You bet, buddy. This one tells me I’m going to have to stop for gas pretty quick.’
‘OK. Go ahead, you’ve got my permission.’
‘I don’t gotta have your permission but I gotta have five for gas. Give me five for your share.’
‘Give you five for my share of what?’
‘Five dollars for your share of gas, wise ass.’ Dalton said indignantly.
‘There’s something you probably failed to notice when you picked me up, Mastermind, I’m a hitchhiker. I don’t have five dollars and I don’t share expenses. If I wanted to pay I would be on a bus and I wouldn’t have to put up with you. You had a chance to get rid of me back in Needles but you like my company so much you threatened me if I got out of the car. If you’re tired of me I’ll get out at the gas station. OK?’
‘You got to have money. Two hundred dollars. In know it; where is it?’
Dewey was struck with Dalton’s reference to the two hundred dollars but he didn’t betray it. The mystery of the last several hours just got deeper.
‘Two hundred dollars? You think I would hitchhike with that much money with guys like you on the road? Hell, I could fly if I had that much. Sorry Dagger, no money, I’m broke.’
‘How are you going to eat?’
‘I’m not. I thought I could get back in forty-eight hours so there wouldn’t have been any need to eat but it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it. I’ll probably be half dead before I get back.’
Dalton smiled, looked out the driver’s side and muttered half under his breath: ‘You’re going to be all dead.’
Dalton had been told that Dewey would have two hundred dollars and that it would be his. He considered it already his. In his mind Dewey had an obligation to him for the money.
‘Where you got it? In your shoe?’ He said as he eased the Olds back on the highway.
‘Don’t got it anywhere.’
Dalton looked at Dewey warily. Maybe the guy wasn’t such a chump after all, he thought. Dalton had all the arrogance of the criminal mind. No matter how many times they lose they think they’re smarter than all other brains combined.
Yisreali had told him Dewey would have the money. Dalton never questioned how Yisraeli would know, which of course, Yisraeli actually didn’t. He was only guessing. Convinced that the money was there which, as it turns out it was, Dalton wanted to know where he had it.
It is a peculiarity of thieves that they must see the object of their desires before they can actually go after it. Thus if Dalton actually saw the money and where Dewey kept it his mind would have been at ease. There would be no possibility he couldn’t find it when he wanted it.
Dewey who was no man of the world and not in the least bit devious kept his money where any self-respecting man kept it, in his billfold on his hip. But Dalton, who, while not a man of the world but very devious, imagined the money was sewn into the lining of Dewey’s coat, pinned in some inaccessible place or concealed in a money belt or a shoe. For Dewey there was only one place his money could be; for Dalton dozens including a false bottom to Dewey’s duffel bag. Dalton just didn’t know where to start looking. Well, nobody said that just because thieving was dishonest it would be easy.
As Dalton was devising phrasing less obvious than: ‘Where’s the money?’ they arrived at a fork in the road. As the inimitable Mr. Berra said: ‘When you come to a fork in the road, take it.’ The boys fully intended to do that but there was the question of which tine to follow. The signs on the highway indicated that if they went left they would reach the town of Flagstaff; Phoenix lay at the end of the right tine.
As Dalton was planning Dewey’s murder which ever way they went he thought generously to offer him the choice of roads.
‘Which way do you want to go? Phoenix or Flagstaff?’
As much as a turn to the left distressed Dewey he had seen enough desert in the Mojave so that the prospect of hundreds of miles more was not very appetizing. The very name of Flagstaff had so much romantic appeal for him that there was really no contest.
In his youth he had written a story centered around his imagined concept of the town. Later he had read a great story in one of the Western pulps of a guy stuck in a cabin in Flagstaff during a snowstorm of such magnitude that it made Noah’s flood look like an April shower.
This guy had the misfortune to have to go potty during this twenty or thirty footer. No indoor plumbing obviously but the guy had been brought up well. Rather than let fly out the back door into the snowbank where his impropriety would have melted with the Spring thaw he felt obligated to trek out to the outhouse which miraculously had somehow not been buried beneath the drifts.
Here’s the tough part of the story. Although he could see through the driving snow well enough to find his way to the outhouse he somehow couldn’t find his way back to the cabin. Perhaps his mission had been more urgent on the out trip than on the return.
Overcome by God only knows what exhaustion, altitude sickness, whatever, he falls to the ground where he turns into a solid block of ice instantaneously. When the snow did melt that Spring they found the poor sod with his head only inches from the threshhold. There had been a heavy moral to the story but Dewey lost it in the welter of details.
You know how it is, some inconsequential stories live on vividly in the memory. Dewey wanted to see a legendary snowstorm. This was the middle of December so he imagined or hoped that one was raging at this very moment. Without hesitation he said: ‘Flagstaff.’ and thereby for reasons irrelevant to his situation made the decision as will become clear that saved his life.
‘Do you believe in fate?’ Dalton asked portentously.
Just at that moment the voice of Tex Ritter burst from the radio. Tex had a voice that commanded attention so conversation was suspended for a moment.
If the ocean was whisky
And I was a duck,
I’d dive to the bottom
And never come up.
But the ocean ain’t whiskey
And I ain’t a duck.
So I’ll play Jack O’ Diamonds
And trust to my luck.
‘That’s what I believe.’ Dewey said pointing at the radio.
‘You’re a drinker?’ Dalton asked thickly for whom the conditional was an incomprehensible mystery.
‘Aw, Dalton. I think you’re missing the philosophy of the thing.’
‘What’s that?’ The Mastermind asked stupidly.
Dewey could see the man was hopeless; he decided to shine him on a little. ‘Old Philosopher. Good Bourbon label, don’t you think?’
‘Uh, no, I drink Jack Daniels, Black.’ Dalton replied proudly. ‘There ain’t nobody doesn’t think JD ain’t the best bourbon.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, Jack Daniels isn’t bourbon; it’s Tennessee Sour Mash sippin’ Whiskey.’
‘Doesn’t make that claim on the bottle. Read it.’
As they began the climb to Flagstaff night was coming on. As they climbed and night fell it grew colder and colder. Dalton turned on the heater.
He continued to question Dewey about his money. As the time came closer to the moment he had decided to act he became more proprietary toward his intended sacrifice. Like many a murderer he thought his intended victim belonged to him. He was foolish enough to let it show.
Dewey had no notion that Dagger actually intended to murder him but it seemed clear that Dalton intended to rob him and leave him standing by the side of the road. Dewey thought a show of force might be beneficial so he reached in his pocket to withdraw his pearl handled Japanese knife with the long thin blade.
Dalton watched eagerly thinking Dewey was going to show him the money. The pin on the blade was so worn that in one motion Dewey withdrew the knife and flipped it open like a switchblade.
Dalton thought it was one. He developed a pensive brow. He didn’t like it but he saw it merely as an obstacle requiring greater caution.
A sign on the highway pointed to Flagstaff.
‘Oh darn.’ Dewey said. ‘I hoped we would go through Flagstaff. I wanted to see it. I guess it’s off the highway.’ Then he said something incomprehensible to Dalton. ‘Shucks, there isn’t even any snow on the ground.’
Dagger decided it was time to act.
Now, if you believed Dalton back there in the Mojave when he said he fought the Sergeant and Rivers fair and square you were just as gullible as the rest. Dalton was as fond of the bushwhack as any American male. He had blindsided the Sergeant and bopped Rivers over the head from behind. He didn’t intend to give Dewey a chance either.
‘Oh, I’m so tired.’ Dalton said stifling a false yawn.
‘What say we pull off on a side road and get some sleep.’
So long as they were heading East at eighty per Dewey was content fo humor Dalton complacently so that Dalton thought Dewey was a very placid harmless sort of guy. At his suggestion of stopping it was Dewey’s turn to fly into a rage.
‘Oh no you don’t. Are you crazy, Dagger? What the hell are you talking about, pull over? I’m already fifty-eight hours on the road.’ He said bitterly thinking of Teal Kanary. ‘I’m not going to stop. You leave the road and you let me out here or, by god, you’ll learn the reason why.’
Dalton was startled by the outburst, even intimidated.
‘I’m getting too tired to drive.’ He whined.
‘Then pull over and let me behind the wheel. I’ll drive and you can get in the back to sleep.’
‘You don’t have a license.’
‘Since when does a guy like you worry about laws, eh, killer? You don’t need a license to drive, old desperado, you only need a license to show a cop. I haven’t seen a cop since the Needles.
‘I’m not going to let you drive my car.’
‘Then shut up, keep driving and turn on the heater, it’s cold in here.’ Dewey said flipping out his knife for emphasis.
‘The heater is on.’ Dalton whined who, they both realized, had been shivering in his short sleeve canned pea green shirt for some time.
‘Then why is it so cold?’ Dewey asked drawing his coat about him.
‘I don’t know.’ The master mechanic wondered.
‘Oh, hey, wow, look at that.’ Dewey said noticing an elevation sign. ‘We’re at seven thousand feet. I didn’t know Flagstaff was up that high.’
‘Oh my god.’ Dalton gasped as he realized why there was no heat.
‘Oh my god, what?’ Dewey replied nonchalantly.
‘Oh my god, oh Jesus what? Come on, if you’re cold get a jacket out of your trunk and let’s keep going.’
‘My car’s froze up.’
‘What do you mean your car’s froze up? What does that mean? How could that be?’
‘Damn you. You wanted to come this way. it’s all your fault. If we’d gone by way of Phoenix this wouldn’t have happened. At seven thousand feet it’s probably zero outside.’
‘My radiator froze. That’s why there’s no heat.’
‘How could that be Dagger?’ It’s not so cold that anti-freeze freezes.’
‘I don’t have any anti-freeze.’ Dalton said sheepishly.
‘Dewey was flabbergasted. ‘No anti-freeze? Why not?’
‘It wasn’t cold in LA. I didn’t need it.’
Dewey sat back. He knew it was too good to be true. What a miracle it had seemed to get a ride straight through. He now saw himself back out on the highway.
‘Hey Dalton.’ He said with false warmth in his voice. ‘Let me get this straight. Number one, you’re a master mechanic who knows everything there is to know about a car. Number two, you’re from Bay City, you grew up there, you know it’s colder than an ice cube at the North Pole and you tell me that because it’s warm in LA, even though you’re going to Bay City in December that you don’t put anti-freeze in your car?’
‘Oh man, I was trying to save money.’
‘Boy, you’re a lot more stupid than I thought. So what’s going to happen? Is the car going to stop running?’
‘No. It’ll be OK until it warms up and melts, then the radiator and probably my block will burst and it will overheat. Then we’ll stall.’
‘My advice then is to turn North. Keep it frozen and we’ll be alright.’ Dewey said facetiously and maliciously.
‘Don’t be facetious.’ Dalton said.
‘Oho, don’t be facetious. The desperado, Duelin’ Dalton Dagger knows a polysyllabic big word.’
Dalton, now that he realized there was no possibility of heat realized he was very cold. He also didn’t want to murder Dewey in this circumstance. He might be stuck out there alone. Dewey’s desire to see Flagstaff had saved his life. Thanks to a story in a pulp magazine read seven years before he was still alive.
‘God, I’m cold. Let me have your coat to wear.’
‘Why would I do that? Then I’d be cold-er.’
‘You’ve got that wool shirt.’ Dalton said referring to Dewey’s middie.
‘Well, Dagger, just stop and get a jacket out of the trunk.’
‘I don’t have a jacket in the trunk. I don’t have anything in the trunk. This shirt is all I’ve got.’
‘What? You’re going to Michigan in the dead of winter and all you’ve got to wear is that short sleaved pea green shirt with the frill on the sleeve? It’s even a terrible color. I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.’ Dewey said in disbelief.
‘Yes. I thought the heater would keep me warm.’
‘Without anti-freeze? OK. Given your intelligence or lack thereof, I guess I can accept that.’
‘You going to let me wear your coat?’
‘Hell no, Dagger, you’ll have to freeze.’
Dalton stared glumly ahead as he drove shiveringly through the night. Fortunately the radiator freezing didn’t affect the radio so as they rolled down the mountain in the black starlit night the voice of Hank Snow warmed the atmosphere if not the temperature as he sang with seeming sardonic intent:
The Last Ride.
In the Dodge City yards of the Santa Fe
Stood a freight made up for the East.
And the Engineer with his oil and waste
Was grooming his great iron beast.
While ten cars back in the murky dusk
A boxcar door swung wide.
And a hobo lifted his pal aboard
To start on his last ride.
A lantern swung and the freight pulled out
The Engineer gathered speed.
The Engineer pulled his throttle out
And clucked to his fiery steed.
Tens cars back in the empty box
The hobo rolled a pill.
The flare of the match
Showed his partner’s face
Stark white and deathly still.
As the train wheels clicked
Over the coupling joints,
A song for a Rambler’s ear,
The hobo talked to the still white form
His pal for many a year.
For a mighty long time we rambled Jack
With the luck of men that roam,
With the back door stoop for a dining room
And a boxcar for a home.
We dodged the bulls on the Eastern route
And the cops on the Chesapeake.
We traveled the Leadville narrow gauge
In the days of Cripple Creek.
We drifted down through Sunny Cal
On the rails of the old SP,
Of all that you had through good and bad
a half always belonged to me.
You made me promise Jack,
That if I lived and you cashed in,
To take you back to the old churchyard
And bury you there with your kin.
You seemed to know I would keep my word,
For you said that I was white.
Well, I’m keepin’ my promise to you Jack,
‘Cause I’m takin’ you there tonight.
I didn’t have the money to send you there
So I’m takin’ you back on the fly.
It’s a decent way for a ‘bo to go
Home to the bye and bye.
I knew that fever had you Jack,
But that doctor just wouldn’t come.
He was too busy treatin’ the wealthy folks
To doctor a worn out bum.
As the train rode over the ribbons of steel
Straight to the East it sped.
The Engineer in his high capped seat
Kept his eyes on the rails ahead.
While ten cars back in the empty box
The lonely hobo sighed.
For the days of old
And his pal so cold
Who was taking his long Last Ride.
Dewey had been listening with concentration so he didn’t hear Dalton when at the line ‘Takin’ you back to the old churchyard’ Dagger turned to the window to mutter ‘except you ain’t goin’ to see no churchyard.’
‘Boy, don’t you think that’s great.’ Dewey said in wonder.
‘What’s so great about it?’ Said the dull witted uncomprehending sluggard.
‘Well, I mean, there’s the romance of it. All those fantastic references to the Leadville narrow gauge in the days of Cripple Creek…’
‘What’s a Leadville narrow gage doin’ in a Cripple Creek?’ Dalton asked suspiciously fearful Dewey might know something he didn’t.
Dalton was on pretty safe ground because although Dewey knew what a narrow gauge railway was and he knew Leadville was in Colorado the rest was pretty well encompassed by romance. It sounded sensational to him. He ignored Dalton’s question.
‘…well, you know, what I mean is it’s the romance of the rails. Besides Hank Snow can get more words into a three minute song than anyone I know. The guy who wrote that song is easily as good as Robert Service or Thayer. I mean, that’s just a nice verse story.’
‘Shut up.’ Dalton said unceremoniously.
Little did Dewey know he was rolling down the great divide between the old America and the new. The railroad song was already a thing of the past; next up were truckin’ songs about the great Interstates.
And so the driver with the man in the passenger’s seat pierced the night with their bright head lights while they bid the coast goodbye without a sigh to head for the old Northwest. They sped on down the mountainside to a destiny on the other side.
The faint flimmer of pre-dawn light rose to reveal a desert covered with sage brush. As the light increased the ribbon of highway called 66 was visible as a narrow line far below. As rosy fingered dawn revealed the earth in all its glory far in the distance perhaps a hundred miles away, or maybe more, the city of Albuquerque was revealed against the opposing mountain range.
‘Must be in New Mexico.’ Dewey said in awe just to pronounce the sacred name of a State.
‘Must be.’ Dalton said between clenched shivering teeth although the temperature had risen significantly with the desert and the dawn.
They rolled on down to rejoin Highway 66.
Dalton had developed a cold throbbing hatred for Dewey over the last six frigid hours. While Dalton was still throwing off the chills in his canned pea green short sleeved shirt with the frilly cuff Dewey had been comfortable for hours in his rain coat.
As Dalton warmed so did his engine. The needle of his heat gauge rising inexorably toward the red. Dalton lamented the impending loss of his car but worse still he deeply lamented his failure to put anti-freeze in the radiator which allowed Dewey to justly call him stupid. He felt stupid. He hated Dewey even more because he knew he was stupid. But as with all people who are foiled in their hopes by an able opponent he felt grudging admiration for Trueman. Dalton felt that it was a shame he had to die.
Dalton glimmered that his best opportunity had passed up on the mountain. He hoped his car might not be so damaged that it couldn’t be repaired for not too many dollars. If that came about then, he thought, it would be a matter of who could stay awake the longest.
As the sun levitated up the sky the bitter cold of night left Dalton’s limbs. Dalton bitterly resented that Dewey hadn’t lent him his coat. Dewey couldn’t believe that anyone going to Michigan in the winter wouldn’t have the foresight to provide himself with the proper gear. Dewey substituted the word ‘foresight’ for ‘stupid’ and used it with enough emphasis to irritate Dalton.
Dalton redoubled his efforts to discover where Dewey had concealed his cash.
Entering Albuquerque he devised a ploy. He needed gas but he knew Dewey wouldn’t give him money for that. A little grocery store sat across the street from the gas station he selected.
‘I’m hungry. While they’re gassing me up let’s go over to that grocery store to get something to eat.’
‘Go ahead. Get something for me.’
‘OK. Give me the money.’
‘I don’t have any money. I just thought it would be a nice gesture if you bought something for me. Kind of show your appreciation for my pleasant company, you know what I mean, after all we’ve been through together and all that. I’d think you were an OK guy. That’s worth something isn’t it?’
‘Not that much and I’m not that OK. Go hungry.’
Dalton crossed to the grocery store. As he did Dewey stepped to the side of the highway to put his thumb out. Futile gesture as there was no morning traffic.
Dalton emeged from the store to become enraged. He saw his two hundred dollars trying to escape.
‘Hey Trueman, get your ass back in the car.’ Dalton shouted sternly to the astonishment of various loungers and attendants.
‘Listen Dagger, your car’s finished. I’m catching another ride.
‘Oh no you’re not.’ Dalton said shifting his food to his left hand and doubling up his right threateningly. ‘Get back in the car.’
‘Even you aren’t stupid enough to get in a fight in a strange town. Or are you Dagger? Cops’ll put you right back in the jug you stupid jarhead; only a psycho would answer an ad for a few good men. That you got sent to the brig doesn’t mean that you’re a better man it means that you’re even more stupid and psycho than the rest. Dig it!’
Dalton was hurt. Strangely instead of getting angry he broke out in a little pout thrusting his lower lip out and bringing his eyebrows down over his eyes.
Seeing Dewey’s contempt it began to dawn on him that the hothouse atmosphere begun in Barstow the previous day had evaporated. He didn’t want to admit that he had lost the opportunity but he realized that conditions had changed.
‘My car still runs good. We’ll get there. Come on. Hop in. It’s OK.’
‘Well, there’s water dripping out under there. You’ll probably overheat and die on the highway.’
‘No, I won’t. It’s OK. Honest. Come on.’
Acting on the premise that a sure ride is better than a potential ride Dewey got back in the car.
Surprisingly the damage to the car wasn’t that bad, which is to say, it was a slow leak rather than a rapid drain. Dalton kept it at eighty per through Tucumcari and into the Panhandle of Texas. As the day warmed up out on the Texas plains the car slowly pegged in the red.
By the time they reached Amarillo Dalton had slowed to fifty for the last seventy miles or so. Even then the engine wasn’t that hot; there was no blast of heat coming through the fire wall. The car could be repaired very cheaply.
As they passed through Amarillo Dalton became increasingly concerned. Tired of and Dalton and his incessant clamoring to know where his money was Trueman informed the ex-Marine that if he couldn’t do eighty he was getting out.
Thinking of Trueman only as an additional twenty-five hundred Dalton didn’t know which to lament more the loss of his car or Trueman’s price.
Just on the East side of Amarillo a combination auto repair and junkyard appeared on the North side of the road.
‘Better pull in there Dagger. Once we’re out of Amarillo there won’t be any better places.’
Incoherent with despair Dalton pulled in.
The Olds was a very good looking car for a ’53. The body was sound. The engine was great. Dalton had an excellent choice is a used car. Actually the only think wrong with it was a couple seals had burst. The mechanic’s eyes lit up as Dalton bounced steaming unto their lot. They gave him two choices; overpay or leave the car.
Like all men who work cars for a living they pretended that they didn’t know what was wrong with the car. Could be next to nothing could be the engine.
‘It’s the radiator.’ Dalton said with assurance. ‘I know all about cars; more than you guys do. How much for a used one?’
‘Hmm. ’53 Olds. We don’t have a junker on the lot just now. We’d have to check around for a rebuilt one. Hmm. Might take a couple days to find one.’
‘Couple days!; Dewey cried, slapping Dalton on the shoulder of his pea green shirt. ‘I’m in a hurry. Thanks for the lift Dalton. So long.’
Dewey crossed the highway with a sense of relief to put his thumb out.
‘Hey…hey…you…can’t…come back. You can’t do that.’
Dewey was worth twenty-five hundred to Dalton while the war was only worth a couple hundred so he quickly opted for Trueman.
‘What are you doing, trying to get away? You listen to me.’
While Dewey had always suspected his danger he now realized the extent of that danger.
‘Trying to get away? What the hell are you talking about Dagger? Your car’s dead and I’m not waiting two days to fix it. Screw you.’
‘Yeah? Well, listen Trueman, we’re together. From here on we’re hitchin’ together.’
‘What? Are you crazy Dagger? Nobody’s going to give two guys a ride. I’m not going to spend weeks out here just because your car broke down. Didn’t even break down. You’re so stupid you didn’t put anti-freeze in it because it was warm in L.A.’
Dalton knew Dewey had a good argument; no one would pick both of them up. He tried a last expedient.
‘Well, OK. Now listen, I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do. You’ve got your uniform on so it’s going to be a lot easier for you to get a ride than me. So, I’m going up ahead of you by a couple hundred feet and when anybody stops to pick you up if you don’t tell them to pick me up too when I get to the Valley I’m going to look you up and kill you.’
Dewey did believe Duelin’ Dalton Dagger. He was convinced that Dalton would try to kill him but he mistakenly believed Dalton would never be able to find him. His mother had divorced and remarried so that even if Dalton knew his name he didn’t know his mother’s. By that time Dewey thought Dagger was really psycho and might a way anyway.
‘Oh yeah, sure Dagger, no problem.’ Dewey promised as Duelin’ Dalton Dagger took up a position up road. He stood there glaring menacingly at Trueman poised to run after him should the sailor try to run the other way.
No sooner had they taken up position than a ’48 Hudson pulled over to pick Dewey up.
Dewey wasn’t worried that Dalton would find him in the Valley but there was many a mile yet between him and his destination. It was entirely possible Dewey surmised that Dalton might overtake him further up the road.
This presented a danger for while Dewey had the foresight to realize the consequences of his actions Dalton didn’t. Therefore, Dewey reasoned, if Dalton overtook him and Dewey wouldn’t cooperate the idiot was liable to start a fight and maybe get them both arrested. He thought it expedient to attempt to appease Dalton.
As he got in the back seat of the Hudson he was relieved to find most of the seat was already taken up by boxes of various description. The two guys in front were so big there was no room for the ex-Marine.
‘Say, could you do me a favor and let the guy up there know there isn’t room for him?’
‘We’re not going to stop.’
‘I know. Just shrug your shoulders and hold up your hands helplessly or something so he’ll know I tried.
Killers On The Highway
Dewey settled back in his seat and began to take note of himself. He began to examine what now appeared to be a pile of junk beside him while the passenger reached his left hand over the seat clutched like he was picking up an old rag: ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t pick up your friend but we’re moving and there’s only room for one.’
‘Thanks for stopping. That guy wasn’t any friend of mine. His car burnt out. If you can believe it he’s going to Michingan and didn’t put anti-freeze in his car because it was warm in L.A. Car froze up in Flagstaff last night. Threatened to kill me if I didn’t ask you to stop.’
‘Kill you? My, that’s violent. Do you think he would have?’
‘I think he’d try. Wouldn’t get very far with me though. How far are you going?
‘We may take you as far as Tulsa.’
‘Oh great.’ Dewey said having no inkling of how many miles that was.
‘Yes.’ Said the man in the passenger seat whose name was Daryl. ‘But.’ Daryl added significantly. ‘We’re going to leave the highway here soon and take an alternate route. We will drop you off here if you like or you can ride with us on the side road.’
Dewey heaved a sigh at this sinister note. His intuition told him to get out. They had put him in the back seat which might have meant only that they thought three in the front seat of the huge Hudson might be crowded or it could be meant as a sign of disrespect.
Daryl had shaken hands with his left which in common parlance meant ‘left hand to a nigger or inferior.’ Now they were to take a less traveled road giving him the option to extricate himself or by staying giving permission to do with him as they liked. Dewey had hitched enough to read signs either on or off the highway. There was danger with the homos before and danger behind him in the person of Dalton Dagger.
If he got out of the car on 66 there was the real risk that Dalton might overtake him in a matter of minutes.
‘Christ.’ Dewey thought. ‘Dagger would give up his ride just to get me.’
Dalton had threatened to kill him while these guys hadn’t although as a pair of queens, big strong ones at that, anything was possible.
‘Well, you’re still going to Tulsa? I mean, you know, the road…’
‘Oh yes, the road we’ll drive crosses 66 in Tulsa.’
‘Well, OK. I’ll ride along with you.
It will be noticed that Daryl didn’t ask Dewey how far he was going. That was because he thought he knew how far Dewey was going and that was one hundred miles short of Tulsa.
Highway 66 was a not very wide two laner before the Interstate and the new road was narrower and rougher than that. As Darrel, the driver, eased the car North of the highway into this cowpath Dewey had misgivings. He didn’t know it but by not getting out he had given the Darrels permission to kill him. In their mind they had given Dewey his chance to live or die. They were fair men. Since he hadn’t gotten out he had consented to acquiesce in the homos’ plan.
As it was Dewey was completely disoriented. He had been up so long that, while the nervous tension of the journey prevented his being drowsy, his reactions were somewhat impaired. In addition the novelty of his surroundings completely threw him. He had lost a sense of time and place. He knew it was daytime because the sun was shining but that was all.
He was unaware that he had been given a princely lift but it was about four hundred miles from Amarillo to Tulsa which is not a ride to sniff at. Dewey had a good map of the United States in his head. He knew where Tulsa was in relation to Chicago and back to L.A. but he had no real notion of mileages.
He hadn’t even looked at a map before he left San Diego so he had little idea of the physical realities of distances between cities. He had known where California was and he knew where Michigan was so he just put his thumb out. In a lot of ways Dewey was a boy wonder.
Looking again at the pile of junk beside him he noticed that there were some things piled on top a large box that was covered with a black cloth. He rapped the box with his knuckles; it seemed to be made of wood and empty.
‘Hmmm, the box is empty.’ He mused apprehensively to himself. Why would anyone who was moving transport an empty box?’
Recalling him from his reverie Daryl said: ‘You’re real lucky to get a ride in Oklahoma. You will have a real difficult time East of Tulsa.’
‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’
‘Just a few days ago a family- mother, father, brother and sister- picked up a hitchhiker. I guess they liked him because they took him home, fed him and everything. What do you think he did?’
‘I don’t know. Passed gas?’ Dewey snickered in a feeble attempt at humor.
‘No, silly.’ Daryl laughed slapping the air at him. ‘He murdered the whole family and threw them down a well.’
‘Oh wow!’ Dewey said disbelievingly. ‘Did they catch him?’
‘I don’t think they have yet. He’s still a killer on the loose.’ Daryl said rolling the phrase on his tongue as though to make its flavor last.
‘Likely story.’ Thought Dewey. ‘Just my luck to be passing through at this time.’
‘Well, I’m not going to kill anyone kind enough to give me a ride.’ Dewey said thinking to reassure them in case they were worried.
‘No. I should think not.’ Daryl continued. ‘But it isn’t only people that pick up hitchhikers that get killed. Lots of hitchhikers get killed too.’ Daryl turned a flabby cheek toward Dewey over the back of the seat and looked at him signficantly.
There was that hint of violence again. All the details were pointing to something sinister.
‘Gosh, what is this?’ thought Dewey. ‘Why is my life constantly hopping out of the frying pan into the fire?’
He began to study the two Ds more attentively.
He was in a precarious situation at the same time more or less dangerous than his situation with Dalton Dagger. In point of fact the Darrels cruised this stretch of highway from Amarillo to Tulsa picking up hitchhikers who were subsequently never heard from again.
They had explained the pile of junk beside Dewey as belongings they were transferring to a new address. Thinking they were pitiful small belongings for two such large men Dewey had said noting but he was still wondering why they were transporting an empty box.
Dewey had been right in his surmise that they were two old queens. The men were deeply psychically injured. As Homosexuals it was almost a miracle they had found each other because both had been injured in exactly the same way at exactly the same age and both had reacted in exactly the same way even to physical type. They were like Tweedledee and Tweedledum except their names were spelled Daryl and Darrel.
Both were large men; six foot three, husky running to fat and very strong. They had huge arms; they could bend an iron bar. Their prissy manner contrasted with their apprearances. Their affectation of the feminine was grotesque in their persons. They might have passed as twins but they had only gone to the same school in different places.
Both had been sexually abused by their fathers while still in their cribs. They had been only sixteen months old. There was no possibility that they had a conscious memory of it but they had subconsciously processed the information and as they grew their subconsciouses had directed them in the same way.
They keenly felt their violations as a breach of trust. Thus they had cruised the highway of a weekend for the last two years looking for hitchhikers who would be grateful and trusting.
When they found the right person they would activate the central childhood fixation of their violation. Both men possessed two distinct minds. A very powerful subconscious and a feeble conscious mind. When they murdered the subconscious mind was in control. Unlike Richard Speck who was aware but unconcerned at what he was doing the Darrels had no conscious memory of their crimes. You could have questioned them to doomsday on a conscious level and they would truthfully have denied any knowledge of the murders.
But, if you had known the symbols n which their subconscious minds dealt with their activities there is no chance that they wouldn’t have told you all in symbolical language. After all, subconsciously they did not know they were doing wrong. They were only doing symbolically to others what had been done to them. For if they had had their trust betrayed in an identical manner and no one had been punished for wrongdoing why should they? And there is a symbolic death and even an actual psychological death or murder in the violation of one male by another. After one’s symbolic murder the whole of one’s life becomes an extended effort to ressurect oneself at the expense of others. Not only others but preferably innocent others just as one’s self had been innocent.
The most brilliant literary evocation of the homosexual dilemma is in the final scene of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick.
In that scene which takes place on the great wide bosom of the ocean, or feminine symbol of the unconscious Capt. Ahab has confronted the great white whale of homosexuality and lost. Now, Moby Dick is a story of a man’s or, several different men’s, struggle with their homosexuality which takes place on many levels. Ahab himself has lost a leg, a substitute for his penis, to the great white penis, Moby Dick, which is a symbol of the cause of his homosexuality.