trusted him.
We were once again doing a perfectly legal parson-go-to-meeting thirty miles per, when Johnnie saw a Texaco station and told me to turn off to the right. We were soon on country gravel roads, Johnnie calling lefts and rights, even though all the roads looked the same to me: just wheel ruts running between clapped-out cornfields. The roads were muddy, and there were still scraps of snow in some of the fields. Every now and then there'd be some hick kid watching us go by. Jack was getting quieter and quieter. I asked him how he was doing and he said, I'm all right.
Yes, well, we ought to get you looked at when we cool off a little, Johnnie said. And we have to get your coat mended, too. With that hole in it, it looks like somebody shot you! He laughed, and so did I. Even Jack laughed. Johnnie could always cheer you up.
I don't think it went deep, Jack said, just as we came out on Route 43. I'm not bleeding out of my mouth anymore look. He turned to show Johnnie his finger, which now just had a maroon smear on it. But when he twisted back into his seat blood poured out of his mouth and nose.
I think it went deep enough, Johnnie said. We'll take care of you if you can still talk, you're likely fine.
Sure, Jack said. I'm fine. His voice was smaller than ever.
Fine as a fiddler's fuck, I said.
Aw, shut up, you dummocks, he said, and we all had a laugh. They laughed at me a lot. It was all in fun.
About five minutes after we got back on the main road, Jack passed out. He slumped against the window, and a thread of blood trickled from one corner of his mouth and smeared on the glass. It reminded me of swatting a mosquito that's had its dinner the claret everywhere. Jack still had the rag on his head, but it had gone crooked. Johnny took it off and cleaned the blood from Jack's face with it. Jack muttered and raised his hands as if to push Johnnie away, but they dropped back into his lap.
Those cops will have radioed ahead, Johnnie says. If we go to St. Paul, we're finished. That's what I think. How about you, Homer?
The same, I says. What does that leave? Chicago?
Yep, he says. Only first we have to ditch this motor. They'll have the plates by now. Even if they didn't, it's bad luck. It's a damn hoodoo.
What about Jack? I says.
Jack will be all right, he says, and I knew to say no more on the subject.
We stopped about a mile down the road, and Johnnie shot out the front tire of the hoodoo Ford while Jack leaned against the hood, looking pale and sick.
When we needed a car, it was always my job to flag one down. People who wouldn't stop for any of the rest of us will stop for you, Johnnie said once. Why is that, I wonder?
Harry Pierpont answered him. This was back in the days when it was still the Pierpont Gang instead of the Dillinger Gang. Because he looks like a Homer, he said. Wasn't ever anyone looked so much like a Homer as Homer Van Meter does.
We all laughed at that, and now here I was again, and this time it was really important. You'd have to say life or death.
Three or four cars went by and I pretended to be fiddling with the tire. A farm truck was next, but it was too slow and waddly. Also, there were some fellas in the back. Driver slows down and says, You need any help, amigo?
I'm fine, I says. Workin' up a appetite for lunch. You go right on.
He gives me a laugh and on he went. The fellas in the back also waved.
Next up was another Ford, all by its lonesome. I waved my arms for them to stop, standing where they couldn't help but see that flat shoe. Also, I was giving them a grin. That big one that says I'm just a harmless Homer by the side of the road.
It worked. The Ford stopped. There was three folks inside, a man and a young woman and a fat baby. A family.
Looks like you got a flat there, partner, the man says. He was wearing a suit and a topcoat, both clean but not what you'd call Grade A.
Well, I don't know how bad it can be, I says, when it's only flat on the bottom.
We was
We were once again doing a perfectly legal parson-go-to-meeting thirty miles per, when Johnnie saw a Texaco station and told me to turn off to the right. We were soon on country gravel roads, Johnnie calling lefts and rights, even though all the roads looked the same to me: just wheel ruts running between clapped-out cornfields. The roads were muddy, and there were still scraps of snow in some of the fields. Every now and then there'd be some hick kid watching us go by. Jack was getting quieter and quieter. I asked him how he was doing and he said, I'm all right.
Yes, well, we ought to get you looked at when we cool off a little, Johnnie said. And we have to get your coat mended, too. With that hole in it, it looks like somebody shot you! He laughed, and so did I. Even Jack laughed. Johnnie could always cheer you up.
I don't think it went deep, Jack said, just as we came out on Route 43. I'm not bleeding out of my mouth anymore look. He turned to show Johnnie his finger, which now just had a maroon smear on it. But when he twisted back into his seat blood poured out of his mouth and nose.
I think it went deep enough, Johnnie said. We'll take care of you if you can still talk, you're likely fine.
Sure, Jack said. I'm fine. His voice was smaller than ever.
Fine as a fiddler's fuck, I said.
Aw, shut up, you dummocks, he said, and we all had a laugh. They laughed at me a lot. It was all in fun.
About five minutes after we got back on the main road, Jack passed out. He slumped against the window, and a thread of blood trickled from one corner of his mouth and smeared on the glass. It reminded me of swatting a mosquito that's had its dinner the claret everywhere. Jack still had the rag on his head, but it had gone crooked. Johnny took it off and cleaned the blood from Jack's face with it. Jack muttered and raised his hands as if to push Johnnie away, but they dropped back into his lap.
Those cops will have radioed ahead, Johnnie says. If we go to St. Paul, we're finished. That's what I think. How about you, Homer?
The same, I says. What does that leave? Chicago?
Yep, he says. Only first we have to ditch this motor. They'll have the plates by now. Even if they didn't, it's bad luck. It's a damn hoodoo.
What about Jack? I says.
Jack will be all right, he says, and I knew to say no more on the subject.
We stopped about a mile down the road, and Johnnie shot out the front tire of the hoodoo Ford while Jack leaned against the hood, looking pale and sick.
When we needed a car, it was always my job to flag one down. People who wouldn't stop for any of the rest of us will stop for you, Johnnie said once. Why is that, I wonder?
Harry Pierpont answered him. This was back in the days when it was still the Pierpont Gang instead of the Dillinger Gang. Because he looks like a Homer, he said. Wasn't ever anyone looked so much like a Homer as Homer Van Meter does.
We all laughed at that, and now here I was again, and this time it was really important. You'd have to say life or death.
Three or four cars went by and I pretended to be fiddling with the tire. A farm truck was next, but it was too slow and waddly. Also, there were some fellas in the back. Driver slows down and says, You need any help, amigo?
I'm fine, I says. Workin' up a appetite for lunch. You go right on.
He gives me a laugh and on he went. The fellas in the back also waved.
Next up was another Ford, all by its lonesome. I waved my arms for them to stop, standing where they couldn't help but see that flat shoe. Also, I was giving them a grin. That big one that says I'm just a harmless Homer by the side of the road.
It worked. The Ford stopped. There was three folks inside, a man and a young woman and a fat baby. A family.
Looks like you got a flat there, partner, the man says. He was wearing a suit and a topcoat, both clean but not what you'd call Grade A.
Well, I don't know how bad it can be, I says, when it's only flat on the bottom.
We was
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