1971 - Want to Stay Alive (2 page)

“Let’s have a look at you,” Chuck said in his bullying voice. “Give me your flash.”

The man offered the flashlight. Taking it, Chuck swung the beam on the man’s face.

Watching, Meg stiffened. This man was a Seminole Indian. She had seen several such Indians on the way down from Jacksonville, and she recognised the thick blue-black hair, the dark skin, the high cheekbones and the narrow black eyes. This man was around twenty-three or four and handsome, but his wooden, expressionless face and his stillness made her uneasy. He wore a yellow pattern shirt, dotted with white flowers, dark blue hipsters and his brown feet were thrust into rope-soled slippers.

He stood still, letting them both examine him. In the light of the flashlight, his eyes seemed to Meg to be on fire.

“Who are you?” Chuck demanded, lowering the beam to the floor.

“Poke Toholo is my name,” the man said. “And you?”

“I’m Chuck Rogers . . . this is my girl, Meg.”

“Let’s eat.”

Lighting the way, Chuck led the way into the room. Meg had already gone ahead and was sitting by her rucksack, her stomach was cringing with emptiness.

Poke dumped his rucksack on the floor, knelt, opened it and produced two candles which he lit, then stuck them to the floor. He reached up and took the flashlight from Chuck and put it in the rucksack, then he produced a roast chicken and several slices of ham from a plastic sack.

“Hey! Where did you get this from?” Chuck said, his eyes growing round.

He couldn’t remember when he had eaten chicken last.

Poke looked at him.

“Should you care?” He divided the chicken into equal parts skillfully, using a bone-handled knife.

They ate in silence, savagely and contentedly. Meg noticed the Indian kept looking at Chuck, then away. He didn’t once look at her.

When they had finished, Chuck rested back on his elbows.

“Man! That was good! Where are you heading for?”

Poke produced a pack of cigarettes.

“Paradise City. And you?”

“Miami, I guess.”

They lit their cigarettes from a candle flame.

“Have you a job to go to?” Poke asked. He was sitting crossed legged, his hands on his knees.

“I’ll find one.”

“Think so?” Poke stared at Chuck. “Cops don’t dig for bums.”

Chuck stiffened.

“You calling me a bum?”

“What else are you? You’re dirty and you stink.”

Meg flinched. She was sure Chuck would attack this Indian with his knife and she was startled when Chuck remained where he was.

“I’d rather be a bum than a buck savage,” he said. “You think you’ll get a job?”

“I don’t need a job.”

Chuck stiffened to attention.

“You got money then?”

Poke nodded.

“How much? Ten bucks? I bet you haven’t that!”

“I’m buying a car tomorrow.”

Chuck’s breath hissed between his teeth.

“A car? What kind of a car?”

Poke shrugged.

“Something cheap . . . second hand. I need a car.”

“For Pete’s sake!” Chuck stared at the Indian for a long moment. “Hey! Why don’t we three gang up? Suppose we come with you as far as Paradise City . . . what do you say?”

Listening, Meg marvelled at Chuck’s nerve. He was right, of course. If you didn’t ask, you didn’t get.

“Why should we join up?” Poke asked after a pause.

“What have you got to lose? No fun in travelling alone. We’ll keep you company.”

Poke got to his feet and carrying his rucksack to the far end of the room, away from the other two, he sat down.

“You deaf?” Chuck said. “What have you got to lose?”

“I’ll think about it. I’m going to sleep. Blow the candles out . . . they cost money.” and Poke stretched out on the floor.

Chuck and Meg exchanged glances as they watched the Indian turn over on his side, his back to them, his head on his rucksack.

Meg leaned forward and blew out the candles. Darkness closed in on them. It was several minutes before their eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight. By that time, Poke seemed to be sleeping. His breathing was slow and steady.

Chuck and Meg settled down.

Her hunger satisfied, her body tired, Meg slid into sleep, but not Chuck.

He lay still, his mind active.

Was this Indian bluffing? he asked himself. Could he really be planning to buy a car? If he meant what he said he must have the money either on him or in his rucksack.

Chuck began to sweat. He must have at least two hundred dollars! A goddam Redskin with two hundred dollars!

His thick, short fingers closed around the handle of his knife. It would be easy. He had only to creep across the room and one slash with the knife would finish it.

Chuck was no stranger to murder. It was always the first one that counted and he had two behind him. What was one more?

Then he remembered Meg and he grimaced. He should never have picked her up. He was sure she wouldn’t stand for him killing the Indian. His fingers tightened their grip on his knife. Two hundred dollars! Well, if she didn’t go along, then she would have to go the same way. He would be miles from here before the bodies were found—if they were ever found.

He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

Yes, he would do it! But not yet. The Indian was sleeping lightly. Later, the light sleep would turn heavy . . . that would be the time.

“Chuck?”

The sound of the Indian’s voice made Chuck stiffen.

“I sleep light and I have a gun.” There was a pause, then Poke went on, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

A gun!

Chuck’s fingers relaxed on the handle of the knife. It was as if this bastard had read his thoughts.

“Oh, shut up,” he growled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Eventually, Chuck did fall asleep.

***

For breakfast Poke supplied more ham, some stale bread and a bottle of coke.

They ate in silence, but again Meg was aware that Poke kept looking at Chuck, his black eyes glittering as if he were trying to make up his mind about him.

When they had finished, Chuck said abruptly, “When you buy that car, are you giving us a ride?”

Poke went over to his rucksack and produced a cordless electric razor and a pocket mirror. Propping the mirror against the window frame, he began to shave.

Chuck clenched his fists and blood rushed into his face.

“Did you hear what I said?” he snarled.

Poke glanced at him, then went on shaving. When he had finished, he said, “I’m still thinking.” He cleaned the razor and put it away, then took out a towel and a piece of soap. “The canal is just across the way. You coming?”

Chuck’s heart skipped a beat. Here was his chance! Away from Meg! He could kill this Indian, come back, and tell her he had drowned. She mightn’t believe it, but at least she wouldn’t be a witness.

“Sure.”

He followed Poke out of the room. At the foot of the stairs, he said, “Hell! I’ve forgotten my towel.”

His brown face wooden, Poke stared at him.

“Tell her not to bother. I have the money on me,” and he crossed the hall and walked out into the sunlight.

Chuck returned to the room, his face red with fury. He found a filthy towel in his rucksack as Meg said, “Do you think he’ll let us go with him?”

“How the hell do I know?” Chuck snarled and left the room.

He caught up with Poke who led the way through the undergrowth to the canal.

Chuck thought: I’ll take him when we’ve stripped off. I don’t want any blood on me: a knee in the groin, then the knife.

They reached the canal. The water sparkled in the sunlight. On the far side, Chuck could see Highway 27 that led to Miami. At this early hour there was no passing traffic.

He pulled off his grimy shirt and flexed his muscles. Poke wandered away from him. He took off his clothes and moved to the edge of the canal.

Looking at him, Chuck saw he was wearing a plastic moneybelt around his slim waist. The belt looked bulky and Chuck’s eyes narrowed, then he felt sudden apprehension as his eyes moved over Poke’s body. He had never seen such a build. Flat muscles rippled with every movement. This was a body that seemed to be made of flexible steel and Chuck suddenly lost confidence in his own strength. Maybe this Indian wouldn’t be so easy to take. His hand went to his hip pocket and his fingers closed on the handle of his knife.

He watched Poke dive into the canal and begin to swim with powerful strokes towards the far side. Turning his back, Chuck took from his pocket a thick elastic band which he slipped onto his wrist. He fastened the knife to his wrist by sliding it under the band. Then taking off his trousers and kicking off his shoes, he dived into the water. He was a clumsy swimmer and not at home in the water. He saw Poke had turned on his back and was floating.

He heaved himself through the water towards him. A powerful stab upwards would finish the job, but he had to get that belt off before he let the body sink.

He was now within a few yards of Poke. He trod water.

“Pretty good, huh?” he said, his voice husky.

Poke nodded.

Chuck made a stroke to bring himself closer. The gap between the two men closed, then suddenly Poke sank out of sight. Where he had just been was now a ripple of water.

Cursing to himself, Chuck waited, his eyes searching the surface of the canal. He felt steel like fingers grip his ankles and he was dragged down, water filling his mouth and nostrils. He kicked out wildly, thrashing around, felt the grip slacken and the fingers leave his ankles. He came to the surface, spluttering and gasping. When he had shaken the water out of his eyes, he saw Poke swimming away from him. The knife that had been strapped to his wrist was gone!

Chuck started for the bank, frustrated rage swamping caution, but Poke easily beat him to it. He was already on the bank as Chuck scrambled out of the water.

With a bellow of rage, Chuck went for the Indian like a charging bull, his head down, his thick fingers hooked and groping. Poke weaved aside and as Chuck blundered by him, he kicked Chuck’s legs from under him, bringing him down with a body shattering thud.

Then Poke was on him. His knee slammed into his chest and Chuck saw his own knife in the Indian’s hand. The razor sharp, glittering blade touched Chuck’s throat.

Chuck cringed. He looked into the guttering black eyes and with terror he thought his life was about to be wiped out.

Poke regarded him, the point of the knife pricking Chuck’s skin.

“You were going to kill me?” he asked softly. “Don’t lie! Tell me!”

“I wanted the money,” Chuck gasped.

“You want money badly enough to kill?”

They looked at each other, then Poke stood up and moved back. Chuck struggled to his feet. He was shaking and sweat ran from his face.

“You want my money?” Poke said. “You’re welcome to it if you can get it.”

He tapped the plastic belt. “Two hundred and twenty dollars.” He looked at the knife, then holding it by the blade, he offered the handle to Chuck.

“Take it.”

Bewildered, Chuck snatched at the knife. Poke watched him. “Take my money if you can.”

Chuck looked at the Indian. The glittering eyes and his stillness like a snake waiting to strike frightened him. His nerve failed. The knife slid out of his fingers and dropped onto the grass.

“So you’re not stupid,” Poke said. “Go and wash. You smell.”

Cowed, Chuck took the piece of soap Poke was now offering him and went down the bank into the water. When he had washed and dried himself, Poke was dressed and sitting on the bank, smoking a cigarette. He watched Chuck get into his dirty clothes, then beckoned to him.

Like a hypnotised rabbit, Chuck came and sat by his side. “I’ve been looking for a man like you,” Poke said. “A man without a conscience. You would have killed me for two hundred and twenty dollars . . . how many people would you kill for two thousand dollars?”

Chuck licked his lips. This Indian was out of his head. He thought of the moment when the knife could have slit his throat and he shivered.

“You live like a neglected pig,” Poke went on. “You are dirty, you are hungry, you stink. Look at me! When I want something I take it. I shave because I stole a razor. I stole the chicken and the ham from a Self Service store. I stole this money.” He tapped his waist. “Two hundred and twenty dollars! Do you know how I stole all that money? It was easy. A man gave me a ride and I threatened him. I have a gun. When people are frightened they pay up. All I had to do was to show him the gun and he gave me the money. It’s very simple. Fear is the key that unlocks the wallets and handbags of the rich.” He turned to stare at Chuck. “I have the formula for fear.”

Chuck didn’t understand. All he knew was he wanted to get away from this Indian. He was sure he was crazy.

Poke took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered it. After hesitating, Chuck took one and lit up.

“Tell me about yourself,” Poke said. “I don’t want lies. I think I can use you. Tell me about yourself.”

“Use me? What do you mean?”

Chuck had a creepy feeling this Indian wasn’t bluffing. Two thousand dollars!

“How do I do that?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

Confident he had nothing to lose, Chuck talked.

He admitted he was semi-illiterate. He could read, but wrote with difficulty. His mother was a prostitute. He never knew his father. At the age of eight, he was a leader of a gang of kids who stole from stores. Later, he acted as his mother’s pimp. He was continually being chased by the cops and at the age of eighteen he had killed a cop. This cop had been the most hated man on the block and finally Chuck had ambushed him and had battered him to death with an iron bar. At twenty, he had come up against another youth who imagined he could take over Chuck’s mob. There had been a knife fight and Chuck had won. His opponent’s body had been fed into a cement mixer and his bones and flesh had gone into the foundations of a new slum tenement. His mother had met a violent end. Chuck had found her with her throat slit. She had left him a hundred dollars and he had cleared out of the district and taken to the road. He had been on the road for the past year, picking up a living here and there, living rough and not giving a damn about anything.