Lookout

By Charles Schaeffer

The night was warm and muggy, so Bill Robertson sat outdoors in a green canvas folding chair propped against his mobile home.  Crickets in the sparse woods executed an insect symphony,  soothing and monotonous at the same time.  A voice from the darkness startled Robertson before he saw the face, illuminated by the glow from the window.

“Had a hell of a time finding this trailer you're holed up in,” said Maynard Stutz, blinking in the dim light, and holding out an open hand.

“Not exactly holed up,” Bill said, half standing to shake Stutz's hand. “It's not a trailer. Everybody gets that wrong. It's a mobile home. My house, for now anyway.”

“Sorry, it's just a word. I guess it suits you since Peggy Sue split.”

Bill stood all the way up this time, stubbed out a cigarette, and opened the door of the mobile home. His stooped, lanky frame disguised a latent physical prowess, gone to seed.  “Come on in. You must be here on some mission.”

The other man chuckled. He was roughly the same six feet as Bill, but more muscular, with a crop of sandy hair. After they entered Bill shut the door on the cricket concert and Queenston's lights twinkling in the valley below. Under a mantle of night, the town's empty factories and forsaken businesses stood like mute ghostly sentinels.

Bill pulled down a bottle of Four Roses and placed it on the counter of the kitchenette. Maynard Stutz eased himself onto the end cushion of a discount furniture couch.  

“I'm off duty in case your wondering,” Bill  said, fingering a shot glass off the shelf.  Holding  it  forward, he said, “Drink?” 

“Yeah. My old lady'll  pick up the scent like a beagle, but what the shit?”

“Bill took four long strides across the floor. “See how fast I can cross the room from the kitchen to the living room in a mobile home. “Bill handed Stutz a tumbler, holding two shot glasses of whiskey, and poured himself the same. “I've seen you a couple of times around town at a distance lately. Your old man still run the Riverfront Pub?”

“Till  he drops over is my guess. Same old gang shows up on paydays to get blotto.”   

Bill knew about that. A barstool there bore his name,  scratched on it during a misspent youth.  Across from Stutz he flopped into a worn overstuffed chair. “As far as I know you got no stake in any of my current clients,” Bill said. “So what brings you all the way up here?” Bill Robertson's mobile home rested on a high-pasture half acre leased from a nearby farmer.

Stutz took a swig, pursed his lips,  turning over in his mind how to answer. “Don't know whether you ever met my son, Clint. 

“Not  face to face, but I followed his high school basketball stats on the sports page.”

“Better'n mine ever were. Or yours, either. Bill and Maynard Stutz had starred against each other in high school basketball. “Well Clint's graduated now.  Gullible, guy, too. Could have been your kid, if I hadn't beaten you out with Katy McGrew. Stutz smiled thinly. “I know you two were boinking hot and heavy in those days before I made her an honest woman. Bill remembered bitterly he hadn't been invited to the wedding. 

“Too bad it turns out this way for Clint,” Stutz went on. “But a slick ass named Morty from the other side of town sweet talked him into some trouble. But I think we can get him out of it.”

Bill had talked casually to Stutz a few times in as many years. Now it was old-buddy “we.”

“Seeing you're in the probation office, with access to Grant Hopewell, the DA”. Three aborted careers littered Bill's past life until luck and a nod from an old pal inside landed him in the probation spot.

Bill said, “A probation officer is just another grunt in the system.”

“Except you caroused around with Hopewell in high school. You must have some kind of clout. Don't bullshit me. You're more than a grunt.  Authorized to carry a gun. I see the holster hanging  over there.”

Bill glanced at the gun on the far wall, swallowed the remainder of this drink, and ran a hand through his black hair, thinning at the crown. “What kinda trouble are you're talking about?”  

“Sounds worse than it is.  See, the badass conned Clint into standing watch  outside a house over on Henry Street , near the railroad. The story by the slickster,  Morty, was that the homeowner, a bank drone and trial witness, planned to tell some lies about him in court. Testify that he saw Morty skimming cash from the bank vault.

“Long story short, he promised Clint a grand to stand watch outta sight. Be a lookout or something. Morty's idea was to throw a scare into the witness, maybe rough him up a 

little, but that's all. Catch is, the witness pulled a gun. Morty and him struggled and the gun went off. Bingo. Witness died the next day, but not before fingering Morty, who cracked under questioning and dragged my son into the mess. Morty and Clint are up for arraignment Monday. None of this has made the newspaper.” Stutz put his glass down.

Bill shook his head . “How dumb can you get?  Sorry, but that's how it shakes out for Clint.” Another thing Bill knew plenty about making snap decisions--and watching them come back to haunt.

Maynard Stutz frowned. “Hey, the kid's only 18. Sure. He's hot headed, but  got no record.” Stutz shifted on the worn couch. 

“Yeah and he never got the grand anyway, so where's the crime?  The court's always letting underagers off. No big deal here.”

“Maybe misdemeanors. But you're talking conspiracy to intimidate a witness, with homicide for dessert.”

“Accidental,” Stutz protested. “If the DA decides before the arraignment the cops Clint can't even be placed at the scene of the crime, shit, it's all over. Only the sleaze ball Morty pays.”

“And you want me to cozy up to the DA. No can do. I got a career here, too. Besides the odds are crowding zero.” Hopewell had graduated top of his law class and returned to Queenston like an avenging angel. 

Maynard Stutz's face darkened like a sudden storm cloud. “I was hoping this could be a friendly little talk--just you and me working things out,” he said, pulling a folded paper out of his pocket and handing it to Bill. A sudden chill  rippled through the stale air. 

Frowning, Bill scanned the paper.

”Yeah,” Stutz sneered. “A copy of your own juvenile record after they caught you shaving points during the Championship Game.  Bill's team had won that game, but by just two points, even though they'd been heavily favored. “I could tell when we were playing that game you were missing some gimme layups on purpose---”

“You gotta be freakin kidding.  That was twenty years ago.” 

“Yeah, but you were caught and fined for rigging, then your old man, a town councilman, kept it out of the local press.”

“Well, so what?  Ancient history.”

“Maybe if you hadn't left the little detail off your application for probation officer. Look at  that line, asking whether you've ever been arrested or convicted. Happens to say “no” on your application. Oh yeah, I got a copy of that too. Maybe my clout doesn't go as high as the DA, but I know some guys from way back in the trenches at Headquarters.”

“So I don't play your game and my high-school slip up turns up on the desk of the Head of Probation.”

“It's your call.  You can help yourself and Clint. Or be back stocking saloon vending machines with coffin nails. “Peddling ‘Lucky Strikes.,” Stutz said, smirking.  Not Bill's best moment in the capitalist sun, he had to agree. 

Bill let the job application with the arrest omission drop to the table. He stared for a moment at Maynard Stutz, ,morphed from good old buddy from way back to blackmailer on a mission.

“Just  tell the DA you know Clint was home with me at the time of the shooting accident,” Stutz instructed. “Who's the legal system gonna believe,  Morty the cheap-ass embezzler, or you and me?”

Bill Robertson stuck a Lucky Strike between his lips and cupped his hands around the burning match.  He coughed once and blew a plume of blue smoke into the air. “I gotta think this over.”

“Okay,” Stutz agreed. “But make it snappy. Call me at home. You can come over and we can settle the deal. You get back the original of your arrest record and can burn it if you want.  “Stutz stood up to go. They parted and Bill watched the darkness swallow Stutz, returning by the path to the road below where he'd left his car. Bill heard the engine kick over and the car crunch away on the gravel. 

Around 9 in the morning , Bill Robertson called Maynard Stutz. They set up a meeting for 11 a.m. at Stutz's house, a modest brick dwelling on Anderson Boulevard , built when Queenston  still flourished in post-depression growth. Later, Bill drove his own car, a 79 Chevy, to the address. A knock on the door brought the sound of high heels clicking inside. When he door opened, Katy Stutz, not Maynard, stood there, sheathed in a red dress, molded around curves not far off the sexy  lines Katy flaunted in high school.  

“Well, there you are Bill Robertson. You're looking good.”

“Thanks, Katy, long time no see. You do know Maynard asked me here. You look like you're going out on the town.”

“No  Bill,” she whispered. “He tried to phone you about the delay, but I guess you'd  already left.”

She brushed back long blond hair from over her right eye and found a seat on a beige sofa. Bill caught a whiff of perfume he couldn't identify, but it didn't quite mask the faint smell of Jim Beam. His eye caught a glimpse of thigh as she settled further back in the couch.  “Maynard's dad came down with a bug, so he couldn't go to the Riverfront Pub today. Had to call in Maynard, untilthe regular bartender gets there about one o'clock. Maynard won't be back till then.”

“Okay,  guess I better come back later. I got some paper work to catch up on anyway.”

Katy flashed him a come-on smile, a carbon copy of the one from high school days. “Oh, lighten up, Bill  Robertson,” she said, patting the cushion next to her.“Come on over and tell me what you've been doing with yourself. I did hear you were divorced.”

Bill started to put down his brief case, hesitated, then placed it on the floor.  “I don't know about this. If Maynard comes back-- this don't look good.”

“Come on, we're all old friends. Besides, he's stuck at the Riverfront for a couple of hours. One thing I've learned. You can't abandon a barful of lunchtime drinkers.” A look of recollection crossed her face. “Oh, just remembered. I was pulling a heavy old trunk from under the bed when you knocked. Maybe you can help me get it out.”

Inside the bedroom Bill tried to spot the trunk, but suddenly Katy's scarlet lips were on his, pressing hard.  They lingered a moment before Bill pushed back. “What about Maynard?”

“I told you he's out for a couple of hours. Do you need a note from your mother?”

Bill  felt a wave of desire sweeping over him as Katy unbuttoned her dress and pulled him down on the bed at the same time.

“What's that bulge? No, not that, the one in your jacket. She felt it. “Oh, it's your  gun. It's in the way. Take off your coat.”

They finished and Bill backed off,  sat up, lit a cigarette, and put his feet on the floor. Suddenly,  the door downstairs slammed.

“Quick,” Katy hissed, her brown eyes wide with fear. “Grab the trunk. It's gotta look like you were helping.” 

A voice, not Maynard's called out. “Mom, where are you?  Where's Robertson? I gotta talk?  He's here, isn't he?”

A moment later, the bedroom door swung open.

“Clint,” Katy said. “You're supposed to be in the kitchen at the pub, helping your dad.”

“He called from the house and ordered me here--to meet Bill Robertson. To talk.” Clint's dark eyes flared with anger just like his father's. What's going on?  I got it.  It's rape?”

Bill Robertson cut in. “No, you've got it wrong--consensual....”

Clint Stutz's young face twisted in rage and disbelief, his eyes slits. “Mom, it was force

wasn't it?  I know about these things.” 

Katy had gathered the bed covers around her like a fortress.  “I was taking a nap. Bill walked in. We go way back--before your father and you. Bill couldn't help himself, like the old days. He just came on to me. Clint withdrew a switchblade and flicked it open. “You son of a bitch,” he shouted. “You're the one's supposed be helping me. Now, look. He started forward grasping the knife in his white-knuckled hand.

Bill's dropped his voice to the calming edge he'd used with violent probationers. “Just drop the knife. We'll talk this out.”

Undaunted, Clint advanced.

“Drop it, Clint.  This won't help your case.”

Clint lunged forward  Katy screamed, as Bill swiftly withdrew his M-10 Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38. The shot hit Clint in the flesh of his upper leg. Blood gushed from the wound. When delayed pain kicked in,  Clint howled  and dropped to the bedroom floor.