Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [15]
O.K. Mister General, you son of a bitch. Sir. You think you can straighten everything out with an old beat-up silver dollar with a peppermint stripe ribbon hangin‘ on it? Is that it? Speak up, manl Chin in! Chest out! Count cadence, loud and clear. So you gave me your fuckin’ medal and now everything’s just copacetic. Well, I gotta cut your god damned head off. It’s a matter of principle. It’s my god damned patriotic duty. But don’t worry. They’ll give you the Medal of Honor. For sure. Posthumorously. With crossed turds on a field of gold.
Jackson clamped on the pipe cutter, screwed it up tight, pulled it around two or three times, tightened up the adjusting handle a bit more and turned it again. In less than half a minute the meter came loose in his hands and he threw it into the back of the truck.
O.K. Load up, General. The convoy’s movin‘ up. We gotta make contact with the enemy before dawn.
Jackson staggered up to the next parking meter.
O.K. Helen. Off comes that pretty little head.
Quickly he adjusted the pipe cutter, made two jerking turns, missed when he grabbed for the handle and staggered backwards a few steps. He wobbled back and forth a little, got his bearings and wagged his finger at the next meter in line.
Don’t worry sergeant. I’ll be with you in a minute. Stand at ease there while I settle a domestic situation over here.
Breaking out in a sweat in the hot, sticky air, his breathing became labored, his voice hoarse with the ferocity of his exertions.
O.K. Kitten. Sorry to do this. But I lost my head over you. Now it’s your turn.
So he went. He left the motor of the truck running, the door open, the headlights illuminating his work. One after the other he proceeded south down the main shopping district of the town. Methodically he piled the meters together along the curb and every so often went back to drive up the truck, throwing in the meters with a tremendous bang and clatter, pausing every now and then to look down at the trophy in his hands, shake it and mutter,
Well, Colonel Chicken Shit. Sounds like you got a screw loose here and there. Better have you examined. Can’t have no Section Eights runnin‘ around in this outfit. Right?
Down the sidewalk a city cop came sauntering along his beat, twirling his club. He saw the truck of one of the municipal maintenance people up ahead, tested the door of a bank building, a clothing store and then a jewelry shop. When he came abreast of the maintenance man he muttered a friendly,
Evenin‘.
Howdy, answered the man who went on with his work. The cop walked on a few feet and then turned to watch the proceedings. The man grunted as he turned the cutter with jerking pulls, putting his shoulders behind it and catching the meter as it came loose. Then he began singing the old hillbilly song, Little Liza Jane.
The cop stood by, swinging his club and watching. But it was a late hour for a city employee to be working. On the other hand a good deal of maintenance work is done at night. But why are they removing the parking meters on Franklin Street? Lord only knows what the Big Wheels will decide to do next. Seems like they’d say somethin‘ anyhow so’s a body’d know what was goin’ on. But what was goin‘ on?
Hey fella. What are you doin‘ anyway?
Jackson continued with his work, pulling the cutter around with smooth, even jerks and tightening the handle every so many turns. Without looking at the cop, he answered:
I’m cuttin‘ off this parkin’ meter. What does it look like?
Oh. Yeah. But—who are you?
I’m Lloyd Jackson.
Yeah—but who are you?
I dunno. You might say I was a parkin‘ meter bandit.
Jackson walked right past the cop, threw the meter into the back of the truck and walked up to the next in line. The cop shuffled his feet.
Listen. I think maybe you’d better come with me.
I can’t. I ain’t finished this block yet.
Yeah, but you can come back. You can always come back later. I gotta check this here deal.
How come? What’s there to check?
Well—never mind. Come on. Let’s go.
If you say so—officer—sir. Here. Hold this.
Jackson