vapros
Verified Member
I've got a bit of fluff on my hard drive that's been there for quite a while, and I'm about to post it here for lack of any good pool items. I may have posted it before, a number of years ago, so if it looks familiar just skip it. Can't remember. It's in six parts and I will put one up every day until it's done. There's no moral to this little murder mystery and no jokes. Just one more trip into the Journals forum.
Tom John Gets His
Two deputies in a green and white cruiser showed up at my place one day. They were looking for Tom John. I could have showed them if I wanted, because I know where he's at. I put him there. Let me tell you up front that I don't like lying, and I avoid it when I can. I know people who will lie if you ask for the time, but I'm not that way. I only lie when I need to. I'll tell you how it went, and you should notice how hard I tried to stick to the truth.
“Mr. Deakin, do you know Tom John?”
“Oh, yeah, I know him.”
“How long since you seen him?”
“Well, he was by here just a few days ago.”
“Is Mr. John a friend of yours?”
“Not hardly, he's a sorry piece of shit and I should of shot him in the head the first time I seen him.”
“Why did he come here, Mr. Deakin, if he wasn't your friend?”
“We got a couple common interests and we needed to talk and get something straightened out. I drove to Bonham a couple of weeks ago, and I missed him, so he came here.” I neglected to tell them that I know Mrs. John much better than I know Tom.
“What was your business?”
“Well, I got me some wooded property over that way, and I give him permission to go in and pick up the down stuff and cut firewood and send me half. So I had to nag him, and I finally got a check for thirty dollars, and then I found out he was lumbering in there; cutting down my good trees for the mill. It's a good thing I didn't find him when I went over there.”
“Mr. John come over here two days ago, and he come to see you, and ain't nobody seen him since. His wife reported him missing. We thought you might know where he's at.”
“Well, he was here, but he ain't here now, and I don't see how I could help you. Maybe his wife has got lucky.”
“What was he driving, Mr. Deakin?”
“He had him a white F-150 pickup and it looked like it was about ragged out. You'll know it if you see it. A lot of rust and Bondo and primer.”
“You expect to see him again?”
“No, and I hope I don't. Tom's nothing to me but bad news. We just had a couple of things to get worked out.”
“Okay, Mr. Deakin, let us know if you see him or hear from him.”
“Sure, maybe you could leave a card with your number.” So this caught 'em unprepared; you know, like a business card? Neither of them had shit, but the skinny one went back to the unit and rummaged around and finally came back with one of the Sheriff's cards. It had mustard stains on it (I hope) and the number was scratched out, and another number wrote in. They left it with me, and hitched up their gun belts and drove away. I remember thinking, if they ever get into a shooting scrape, I hope I get to see it.
Reading back through this story, I believe I went through the whole routine without a single lie. Did you notice? It's an art; they should teach it in school. Or maybe they do, like in Harvard or Yale, you know, for the politicians?
Well, Tom John had been to my place, and he was not there now, just like I told the deputies. So, where was he? Day before yesterday, I'm sitting in the front of the lean-to where I keep my little plywood skiff, and I'm having me a smoke, and I see this raggedy-ass Ford pickup going by slow on the road, and the driver is taking him a good look at my house. Then, he spots me over to the side, and he turns his face away and speeds away toward town. This is what I was talking about when I said he had been to my place. He had drove by, slow. It's Tom John, I was pretty sure, but I had to know, so I put my shoes on and got my own truck and followed after him.
That ugly pickup was parked at the Dollarooney, and I set up down the street a block to watch. Sure enough, it was ol' Tom – I got a good look when he limped back to his ride. I knew one thing for sure; there wasn't but one reason for him to be in Cutman, and that was me. I went straight home and had me a drink. Than I had another drink. I been knowing Tom John a long time, and I knew he had not come to town to wish me well. I just had to decide what to do about him. In the end, it was not so hard to make a plan.
I went camo, and bundled up my sleeping bag and a mosquito bar and some stuff to eat and a big thermos of hot coffee. Then I slicked up my .223 rifle and some shells and as soon as it was dark I climbed up the hill behind my house, crossing the old road I figured he would come in on. I picked out a good spot above the road and set up my little camp. It was just before daybreak when he showed up, still driving that old wreck of a pickup truck. He was on the old road and he parked and got out and limped around a few minutes and then he got a rifle with a scope out of the truck and hiked down toward the house. He went almost to the very edge of the woods, and set up a shot of about a hundred fifty yards and downhill. There wasn't any doubt what I had to do, and I followed him and dug in just as he did. My shot would be only about sixty yards, and I didn't need no scope. My iron sights would do fine.
I lay down behind a log and watched Tom John until the light got good. It give me a funny feeling, looking at him. His ass was mine, just any time I wanted it, and I guess he was feeling the same way about me, looking down at my house. Two or three times I seen him fidget a little, and turn his head to see in all directions. One might almost think he could feel me looking at him. I never considered no amnesty for him – if I didn't do this today, I would have it to do tomorrow, unless he did me first. I hope he enjoyed the sunrise, because it was his last one. Here you go, Tommy Boy.
Tom John Gets His
Two deputies in a green and white cruiser showed up at my place one day. They were looking for Tom John. I could have showed them if I wanted, because I know where he's at. I put him there. Let me tell you up front that I don't like lying, and I avoid it when I can. I know people who will lie if you ask for the time, but I'm not that way. I only lie when I need to. I'll tell you how it went, and you should notice how hard I tried to stick to the truth.
“Mr. Deakin, do you know Tom John?”
“Oh, yeah, I know him.”
“How long since you seen him?”
“Well, he was by here just a few days ago.”
“Is Mr. John a friend of yours?”
“Not hardly, he's a sorry piece of shit and I should of shot him in the head the first time I seen him.”
“Why did he come here, Mr. Deakin, if he wasn't your friend?”
“We got a couple common interests and we needed to talk and get something straightened out. I drove to Bonham a couple of weeks ago, and I missed him, so he came here.” I neglected to tell them that I know Mrs. John much better than I know Tom.
“What was your business?”
“Well, I got me some wooded property over that way, and I give him permission to go in and pick up the down stuff and cut firewood and send me half. So I had to nag him, and I finally got a check for thirty dollars, and then I found out he was lumbering in there; cutting down my good trees for the mill. It's a good thing I didn't find him when I went over there.”
“Mr. John come over here two days ago, and he come to see you, and ain't nobody seen him since. His wife reported him missing. We thought you might know where he's at.”
“Well, he was here, but he ain't here now, and I don't see how I could help you. Maybe his wife has got lucky.”
“What was he driving, Mr. Deakin?”
“He had him a white F-150 pickup and it looked like it was about ragged out. You'll know it if you see it. A lot of rust and Bondo and primer.”
“You expect to see him again?”
“No, and I hope I don't. Tom's nothing to me but bad news. We just had a couple of things to get worked out.”
“Okay, Mr. Deakin, let us know if you see him or hear from him.”
“Sure, maybe you could leave a card with your number.” So this caught 'em unprepared; you know, like a business card? Neither of them had shit, but the skinny one went back to the unit and rummaged around and finally came back with one of the Sheriff's cards. It had mustard stains on it (I hope) and the number was scratched out, and another number wrote in. They left it with me, and hitched up their gun belts and drove away. I remember thinking, if they ever get into a shooting scrape, I hope I get to see it.
Reading back through this story, I believe I went through the whole routine without a single lie. Did you notice? It's an art; they should teach it in school. Or maybe they do, like in Harvard or Yale, you know, for the politicians?
Well, Tom John had been to my place, and he was not there now, just like I told the deputies. So, where was he? Day before yesterday, I'm sitting in the front of the lean-to where I keep my little plywood skiff, and I'm having me a smoke, and I see this raggedy-ass Ford pickup going by slow on the road, and the driver is taking him a good look at my house. Then, he spots me over to the side, and he turns his face away and speeds away toward town. This is what I was talking about when I said he had been to my place. He had drove by, slow. It's Tom John, I was pretty sure, but I had to know, so I put my shoes on and got my own truck and followed after him.
That ugly pickup was parked at the Dollarooney, and I set up down the street a block to watch. Sure enough, it was ol' Tom – I got a good look when he limped back to his ride. I knew one thing for sure; there wasn't but one reason for him to be in Cutman, and that was me. I went straight home and had me a drink. Than I had another drink. I been knowing Tom John a long time, and I knew he had not come to town to wish me well. I just had to decide what to do about him. In the end, it was not so hard to make a plan.
I went camo, and bundled up my sleeping bag and a mosquito bar and some stuff to eat and a big thermos of hot coffee. Then I slicked up my .223 rifle and some shells and as soon as it was dark I climbed up the hill behind my house, crossing the old road I figured he would come in on. I picked out a good spot above the road and set up my little camp. It was just before daybreak when he showed up, still driving that old wreck of a pickup truck. He was on the old road and he parked and got out and limped around a few minutes and then he got a rifle with a scope out of the truck and hiked down toward the house. He went almost to the very edge of the woods, and set up a shot of about a hundred fifty yards and downhill. There wasn't any doubt what I had to do, and I followed him and dug in just as he did. My shot would be only about sixty yards, and I didn't need no scope. My iron sights would do fine.
I lay down behind a log and watched Tom John until the light got good. It give me a funny feeling, looking at him. His ass was mine, just any time I wanted it, and I guess he was feeling the same way about me, looking down at my house. Two or three times I seen him fidget a little, and turn his head to see in all directions. One might almost think he could feel me looking at him. I never considered no amnesty for him – if I didn't do this today, I would have it to do tomorrow, unless he did me first. I hope he enjoyed the sunrise, because it was his last one. Here you go, Tommy Boy.