Authors: John McEvoy
Jimbo drove west out of Madison on Highway 18 in Bledsoe’s blue Toyota. On this Friday, at this early morning hour and heading away from the city, traffic was light. Vera rode in the passenger seat. Bledsoe sprawled across the back seat. He was reading the latest issue of
The Economist
while trying to ignore Vera’s rummaging through the available country music stations on the car radio.
Bledsoe had risen before 5 a.m. to make his final preparations. The dawn sky was just beginning to brighten as he opened the trunk of the Toyota. Bledsoe reached in and removed the spare tire. Two nights before, he had stolen four concrete blocks from an eastside Madison construction site and hidden them in his storage bin in the basement of his apartment house. Now, he effortlessly lifted each of the blocks, placing two in the tire well, shoving the other two under a blanket at the rear of the trunk. He laid the cardboard flooring and carpet over the tire well. The added weight of the blocks dropped the rear bumper of the Toyota a noticeable several inches. But Bledsoe was the only one noticing. Then he tossed in his duffel bag and the three sleeping bags he’d purchased the day before. He took the spare tire down to the basement storage unit. “Way my luck is going,” Bledsoe said softly, smiling as he climbed back up the basement stairs, “I won’t be getting any flat tires.”
Minutes later, when he’d pulled up to the apartment building on Dahle Street where Jimbo and Vera lived, they were waiting outside, sleepy-eyed but eager, like kids ready for camp. Bledsoe gave them a cheery “good morning,” then took their luggage—an old gym bag of Jimbo’s, a dark pink suitcase that belonged to Vera—and tossed them into the trunk before quickly closing it. “Jimbo, how about you driving?” he said. “And Vera can ride up front with you. I’ll navigate.”
“Sure,” Jimbo said. “But are you sure we’re going to need those sleeping bags you bought?”
“Why take a chance?” Bledsoe replied. “We might want to sleep up on the top deck one night. I understand a pretty good breeze sometimes comes down the river. Could be a little cool. The bags could come in handy.”
It wasn’t until they’d sped through Fennimore and crossed the Mississippi River at Prairie du Chien and turned north on Highway 26 that Bledsoe reached over the front seat and handed Ottmar Liebert’s “Nouveau Flamenco” tape to Vera. “My turn for music now,” he said, and Vera didn’t argue. She was in a great mood.
They were all feeling good on this early autumn afternoon, the beginning of what Bledsoe had described to Vera and Jimbo as an “adventure weekend.” He’d presented the idea to them two nights earlier when they’d met for drinks at Doherty’s Den.
“Partners,” Bledsoe said, leaning forward from his side of the booth, gray eyes intense, “I think we deserve a little break. We’ve been under a lot of pressure. But with three major scores behind us, it’s time to start enjoying some of this money. In moderation, mind you,” he emphasized. “We don’t want any big splash, any flashing a lot of cash around. That’s what leads to most of the jerks who get caught getting caught. There’ll be plenty of time to spend this over the next few years, just as we agreed. Even if the money wasn’t actually stolen, there’s no percentage in drawing any attention to ourselves. But,” he added expansively, “I think we can start putting a little of it to some fun use. What do you say?”
Jimbo and Vera raised their bottles of beer in agreement. Although Vera was aware that her definition of “fun” was for the most part quite distinct from Bledsoe’s, she responded enthusiastically. “Hear, hear,” Vera said. “I’m ready for something different. We both are,” she said, jabbing Jimbo in the side with her elbow. “What’ve you got in mind, Claude?”
Bledsoe reached into his jacket and extracted a four-color brochure extolling the merits of a houseboat shown moored on the bank of the Mississippi. The brochure came from Crandall’s Houseboat Rentals in little Lansing, Iowa, almost one hundred miles straight west of Madison. Crandall’s was a firm with nearly forty years of experience providing, as the brochure cover claimed, “vacations of a lifetime.”
As Vera and Jimbo began to read the brochure, Bledsoe looked up when the front door of the bar opened and said, “Oh, Christ. Here comes Son of the Morning Star.”
Vera, puzzled, said “Who?” as a paunchy, elderly man approached their booth, wearing western boots and hat, replicated blue U. S. Cavalry pants, and a buckskin jacket. His long white hair hung to the shoulders of his fringed buckskin shirt. .“Hello, professor,” Bledsoe said, forcing a smile. “Don’t tell me I’ve missed another deadline.”
Professor Karl Brookings threw his head back and laughed loudly, causing some of the drinkers at the bar to turn and look. “Claude,” he said, “we go back a good ways, do we not? So, I know very well that
you
know you owe me your paper on the history of the Crazy Horse monument. You don’t want to jeopardize that ‘A’ you have working, do you?” He laughed again.
Bledsoe said, “Of course not. I’ll have it for you by tomorrow morning. Sorry it’s late, but I’ve been very busy lately.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Brookings said. He nodded at Jimbo and Vera. The buckskin fringe of his jacket flounced as he moved off, lugging his laden briefcase in one hand, waving with the other to some graduate students he recognized at a table next to the back wall. He was warmly welcomed there.
“What’s that getup for? What’s his story?” Jimbo said.
Bledsoe said, “He was once the university’s top scholar on nineteenth-century western American history. But in recent years he’s turned into a delusional blowhard. He’s gotten so deep into his subject he’s started to role play. He’s an expert on Custer and Little Big Horn. Last few years, he’s begun to dress the part. Tenure keeps him on the faculty. A lot of people make fun of him. Some don’t,” he said, indicating the back table where the professor sat holding forth for the circle of youthful sycophants.
Bledsoe sipped his beer as Vera and Jimbo pored over the houseboat brochure. After a few minutes, he said, “I thought we could drive over there Friday morning. Go out on the boat that day and Saturday, then return it Sunday afternoon and drive home. I called Crandall’s Rentals yesterday. The lady who runs the business said they’d had a cancellation for this weekend. On that model there,” he added, reaching across the table to indicate a craft called the Somerset Belle. “It’s the standard ten-passenger model, smallest of the three models they have, but it’ll give us plenty of room. Two queen size beds, a sofa, kitchen, air-conditioning, TV, microwave, you name it.”
Jimbo said, “How big are these things?”
“Says right here,” Vera answered, pointing at the pamphlet. “Fifteen feet by forty-eight. Engine’s a hundred and seventy horsepower. Cabin’s thirteen by thirty-one. That’s nice and roomy.”
“Right,” Bledsoe agreed. “So we’ll easily be able to stay out of each other’s way. Besides, there’s a nice deck on top. You can fish from there, or sunbathe, or sleep, whatever. Either of you ever been on the Mississippi?”
They shook their heads no. “Well, neither have I,” Bledsoe responded. “It’ll be an adventure for all of us. I’m told it is a great experience.”
Vera looked enthusiastic at the prospect. Jimbo, however, was dubious. He said, “What is this boat going to run us? Got to be expensive. And who’s going to drive the damn thing? Hell, I’ve never been on anything like this.”
Bledsoe laughed expansively. “Jimbo, my man, not to worry. First thing is that I’m paying for this rental. My treat, okay? A little reward for all the good work you and Vera have done. Lagniappe.”
Jimbo interrupted to ask, “Lon who?”, but Bledsoe ignored him and continued. “As far as operating the boat, they have people there who give you instructions and take you out on a little practice run before they release the boat to you. People do it all the time. How hard can it be? This isn’t the Queen Mary II in the North Sea. Besides,” Bledsoe said before he drained his beer glass, “you should know by now that I’m a quick study.”
***
They reached Lansing late Friday morning. Before proceeding to the houseboat headquarters, Jimbo pulled into the parking lot of an IGA supermarket. “We’ll buy the weekend provisions,” he announced, handing Vera a wad of cash. Jimbo fancied himself a master of the barbecue grill and had been delighted to learn that the houseboat came equipped with a small Weber. “I’ll handle all the cooking,” he had announced. Vera extracted their grocery list from her purse as she exited the car. “You two go ahead and shop,” Bledsoe said. He got out of the car and stretched as they entered the store. Then he quickly checked the trunk to make sure that the concrete blocks remained hidden from view.
At the boat landing, Bledsoe went into the office to register. “Is cash okay?” he asked the woman at the desk. “We never refuse it,” Janet Crandall said with a smile. Bledsoe quickly filled out the customer questionnaire, using the phony Illinois address that appeared on the fake driver’s license he showed the woman. It had been created for Bledsoe by a Madison man, Dom Incarvino, who specialized in fake IDs for underage students determined to patronize the city’s numerous beer bars. The license identified Bledsoe as Bob Remsberg of Bannockburn, IL.
Two hours later they were proceeding slowly north on the broad, brown expanse of the upper Mississippi, a breeze in their faces, sun high in a nearly cloudless blue sky. Bledsoe was at the helm. He perched on the swivel chair behind the wheel, steering perfectly, as if he’d done it for years. Jimbo sat on a lawn chair on the little foredeck, just outside the door to the pilot house, drinking beer and waving merrily to passing boats. Vera was sunning herself up top. “This is pretty damn perfect,” Jimbo said for the third time in the last half-hour. “Another one of your best ideas, Claude.”
“Thanks, man,” Bledsoe replied, eyes scanning the west bank of the river. Fifty minutes later he slowed the Mercruiser motor and began angling the prow of the houseboat toward a small, sandy beach. It was located on a slight bend in the river that was shaded by towering cottonwoods, perfect for a single boat whose passengers could drop two anchors, one in the river, the other planted in the sand on shore. “This looks like a good spot for the night,” Bledsoe said. “Gives us some privacy. Jimbo,” he ordered, “get Vera down here so she can help you with the anchors. I’ve got to keep the boat steady while you’re dropping them.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Jimbo grinned. He staggered momentarily after getting out of his chair. The afternoon sun, combined with a half-dozen cans of beer, had turned his skin a brighter shade of pink.
With the boat secured, its prow nestled a few feet off the bank in shallow water, Vera jumped into the water for a swim. The men declared it cocktail hour as she floated in the warm water near the rear of the boat. Bledsoe took a gallon bottle of margarita mix from his duffel. He matched it up with a 750ml bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila and began mixing drinks. Vera came up the side ladder. Dripping water onto the deck, Vera said, “Hey, wait for me.” Her face was aglow in the late afternoon sun. Bledsoe thought he had never before seen this usually glum woman look so happy. He made two powerful drinks along with a light one for himself.
An hour later, after she had drunkenly declared that eating dinner soon had become a “neshessity,” Vera began to unsteadily put together a salad as Jimbo, swearing, finally managed to ignite the charcoal in the grill. They then again toasted one another, their lucrative recent achievements, and the brilliance of their leader, who kept topping off their glasses while merely twirling the liquid in his own. Vera and Jimbo went on drinking steadily. She located a country station out of LaCrosse and bumped up the radio’s volume.
Dusk had crept over the river along with a slight mist when Vera joined Jimbo next to the grill on the foredeck, helping to assess the readiness of the thick sirloins. “One more round to go with dinner,” Bledsoe called from the kitchen. He got no argument. All he heard was the two of them giggling amid the smoke. Jimbo had a long fork in one hand and Vera’s right buttock in the other.
The light was dim where Bledsoe stood at the kitchen counter, well out of sight of the drunken twosome. He carefully placed a massive dose of “roofies,” the date rape drug, into each of their glasses, then vigorously stirred the drinks, which by now were almost all tequila. He’d done his research: Rohypnol, he’d learned, was undetectable, odorless, and capable of rendering its victims unconscious within minutes. He’d had no trouble purchasing a supply from one of the football players he tutored, although the young man had evidenced surprise that Bledsoe wanted the powerful drug “at your age.” Bledsoe had winked at him and pocketed the pills.
Bledsoe brought their glasses to Jimbo and Vera, saying, “Go on and relax. You’ve been working hard on the grill. Let me finish cooking the steaks.” They raised their glasses in yet another joyful toast, drinking deeply. Bledsoe took the fork from an unresisting Jimbo. Vera went into the cabin and sat down unsteadily on the sofa. After he had come stumbling over the threshold, Jimbo plunked down next to her. They snuggled together before leaning back to rest their heads. Their voices dwindled.
Bledsoe heard the first glass fall—Vera’s—onto the wood floor six minutes later. He looked in and saw she was unconscious, her head on Jimbo’s right shoulder. Jimbo was also out. His glass had dropped silently onto his lap, the liquid staining his khakis.
Bledsoe extracted the three steaks from the grill and threw them into the river. He wasn’t hungry. Adrenaline was giving him a rush that dwarfed appetite. Placing the cover on the grill, he looked up and down the river before going inside. The only people in view were some college kids waterskiing in mid-channel, and they were soon out of sight.
The sleeping bags he’d brought were new. He cut the tags off and placed them inside the now nearly empty tequila bottle, which he threw over the side. Then he stuffed Vera into the green one. She was deeply asleep. So was Jimbo. With an eye cocked toward Jimbo, Bledsoe slipped an airtight plastic bag over Vera’s head, twisting the bottom of it into a tight ball, rolling his wrist over to achieve complete closure. Vera seemed to gasp for an instant, perhaps trying to say something, but Bledsoe held tight, the muscles in his big forearms taut. As with Marnie Rankin, it took longer than Bledsoe would have thought, but it had to be done. “Had to be done,” he whispered, though there was no need to whisper at this point. Meticulous as ever, he checked twice for a pulse before turning to Jimbo. Jimbo took a little longer, even shaking for a few seconds before it was over, and Bledsoe had some trouble inserting his large, inert form into the black sleeping bag. Finally, he dragged the bodies into the passage between the bunk beds, pulled up both anchors, and started the engine.