McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales - Michael Chabon [47]
When Carlos got back from a haul Virgil would be sitting on the porch with a bottle of Mexican beer. Prohibition was no bother; Virgil had a steady supply of beer, tequila, and mescal brought up through Texas by the oil people, part of the deal.
The night he witnessed the robbery and murder Carlos sat with his old dad and told him the whole story, including what he’d left out of his account to Bud Maddox, even telling about the ice cream on Frank Miller’s mustache. Carlos was anxious to know if his dad thought he might’ve caused Junior Harjo to get shot. “I don’t see how,” Virgil said, “from what you told me. I don’t know why you’d even think of it, other than you were right there and what you’re wondering is if you could’ve prevented him from getting shot.”
Virgil Webster was forty-six years old, a widower since Graciaplena died in aught-six giving him Carlos and requiring Virgil to look for a woman to nurse the child. He found Narcissa Raincrow, sixteen, a pretty little Creek girl, daughter of Johnson Raincrow, deceased, an outlaw so threatening peace officers shot him while he was asleep. Narcissa had lost her own child giving birth, wasn’t married, and Virgil hired her on as a wet nurse. By the time little Carlos had lost interest in her breasts, Virgil had acquired an appreciation. It wasn’t long after Narcissa became their housekeeper she was sleeping in Virgil’s bed. She cooked good, put on some weight but was still pretty, listened to Virgil’s stories and laughed when she was supposed to. Carlos loved her, had fun talking to her about Indian ways, and her murderous dad, but never called her anything but Narcissa. Carlos liked the idea of being part Cuban; he saw himself wearing a panama hat when he was older.
He said to his dad that night on the dark porch, “Are you thinking I should’ve done something?”
“Like what?”
“Yell at Junior it’s a robbery? No, I had to say something smart to Frank Miller. I was mad and wanted to get back at him somehow.”
“For taking your ice-cream cone?”
“For what he said.”
“What part was it provoked you?”
“What part? What he said about being a greaser.”
“You or your mama?”
“Both. And calling me and you breeds.”
Virgil said, “You let that bozo get to you? Probably can’t read nor write, the reason he has to rob banks. Jesus Christ, get some sense.” He swigged his Mexican beer and said, “I know what you mean though, how you felt.”
“What would you have done?”
“Same as you, nothing,” Virgil said. “But if you’re talking about in my time, when I was still a marine? I’d of shoved the ice-cream cone up his goddamn nose.”
Three days later sheriff’s deputies spotted the LaSalle in the backyard of a farmhouse near Checotah, the house belonging to a woman by the name of Faye Harris. Her former husband, Olin “Skeet” Harris, deceased, shot dead in a gun battle with U.S. marshals, had at one time been a member of the Frank Miller Gang. The deputies waited for marshals to arrive, as apprehending armed fugitives was their specialty. The marshals slipped into the house at first light, fed the dog, tiptoed into Faye’s bedroom, and got the drop on Frank Miller before he could dig his Colt from under the pillow. Jim Ray Monks went out a window, started across the barn lot, and caught a load of double-aught that put him down. The two were brought to Okmulgee and locked up to await trial.
Carlos said to his dad, “Boy, those marshals know their stuff, don’t they? Armed killer—they shove a gun in his ear and yank him out of bed.