Robert Henry

The Fixed Smile of Death

None of the guys figured Orvie had any guts. They had told him that so many times that Orvie was more than half-convinced. They never gave him a real chance to find out what was going on with the boys, because everybody, including Orvie, knew that he’d spill under a little pressure. So, it was with a sense of sudden importance, that Orvie sat in one of the back booths of Farmer Ed’s Grill opposite Big Sanderson. The big boy had come in and chased away the two guys with whom Orvie had been drinking beer. Orvie sat breathless under the scrutiny of Big Sanderson’s small pale eyes, trying to look casual and hard.

“I been watching you for a long time, Orvie,” he said, and his lowered tone gave the whole thing an air of conspiracy and confidence.

“Yeah?” Orvie answered, in that new fiat tone he had suddenly discovered. He wondered how the Big Sand had been watching him. The only stuff he had pulled was peddling reefers at the joints around the high schools. It had kept him in clothes and beet, and lots of times be had felt like a big shot when he would walk into a grill full of those high school punks, but that wasn’t the sort of thing the Big Sand would care about. Orvie was puzzled.

“Sure. And you been handling yourself okay. You keep your mouth shut and you haven’t capered your way into the can once. I got a deal that is almost a solo job, but I need a guy like you for a driver. You in?”

Orvie felt a mixture of pride and alarm He glanced at the big knotted fists of the Big Sand and then up into the little cold eyes. He gulped and said, “Okay with me. When?” Rig Sanderson leaned further over the table and began to talk in a lower tone.

At almost the precise moment he began to outline the job. Honey, in a cocktail lounge down the street, leaned her bright yellow head over a small table and in her Georgia swamp accent murmured to Johnny Micco, “So I figure the big boy has got something so hot that he lets none of you fellows in on it. You know, Johnny, I always liked you but we couldn’t do anything on account of the big boy would bust us both in half.”

“Sure, Honey. Sure,” Johnny said, nodding his patent leather head, “but what kind of a job is it? What did he say?”

“He didn’t tell me nothing, except he’s been getting rid of his stuff, and last night he looks at himself in the mirror in the bathroom and he says. ‘Sanderson, you are one smart guy. You sure are.’ ” Her contempt for the Big Sand showed in the way she lifted one side of her thick upper lip away from her sharp little teeth.

“I don’t know, Honey. That’s not much to go on. Shut up, here comes Barney.” They leaned away from each other with elaborate unconcern, and a square little man with a sullen face walked up and dropped into one of the empty chairs.

“What’s on your mind, Barney?” Johnny asked.

“Geez, I don’t know, Johnny. Just seems kind a funny. I walk into Farmer Ed’s place and there is the Big Sand in one of the booths with that Orvie kid. They’re talking quiet, and Orvie looks like somebody just made him senator from Michigan. I don’t like it. That punk’s no good. Sanderson knows that.”

Honey flashed a look at Johnny, and said, “Isn’t Orvie that little big shot with no chin and the big eyes? Always looking scared and hanging around the edges?”

“Yeah. He peddles stuff for old Joe. He’s a no-good kid.”

Johnny looked at Barney for a long time, as though trying to read his thoughts. Then be looked inquiringly at Honey. She gave a small nod of agreement, and Johnny leaned forward over the table and began to talk in a quick low voice. At first Barney looked shocked, but then he joined in and for a long time the three of them guessed and planned...

Orvie figured that the Big Sand must have dropped a word to the boys. That would be the only reason why Johnny and Barney and even Honey had gathered around and started to treat him like a man instead of the way they did once. They had come in right after the big fellow had left He sipped his drink and returned Honey’s insinuating smile with a leer that was half embarrassment. He was one of the boys. Johnny had his arm around his shoulder and Barney kept telling long jokes. He ordered another round of drinks...

Orvie teetered along the hall to his room. He locked the door behind him, sat on the bed and, with reverence, fished the cold bulk of the automatic out of his coat pocket. The automatic that the Big Sand had slid under the table. The low light bulb gleamed on the metal. Orvie felt proud and happy and watched the room spin gently around him for a time, before he lay back on the pillow and dropped off to sleep.

Orvie wakened with the gleam of late morning sun hurting his eyes. He felt sick. His head was big and thumped painfully. There was a hard lump pressing into his thigh. He fumbled for it and found that he was sleeping with his clothes on. When his hand closed on the automatic he gave a sudden start, and remembered the incredible developments of the previous day. He was going to be right-hand boy for the Big Sand. He forgot his head and sat up, realizing that this was the big day. Tonight would be the big night. A punk no longer! Orvie the big boy!

He stood up and noticed that his clothes were in sad shape. He stood by the bureau and began to slowly empty his pockets. In the side pocket of his topcoat he found a small piece of folded paper. He opened it and read his name at the top. A note! It said, “The big boy is playing you for a sucker. He wants to pull something big, and it looks like afterward he will knock you off so there is no witnesses. Then he figures to go away and never come back here. Don’t be a chump. Watch him close. — Your Friend.” That was all. It was scrawled in pencil.

Orvie looked at his own white face in the mirror and realized that the note made sense. That was why the Big Sand had picked him out. Orvie the punk. Drive the car and then get rubbed out. He undressed and then sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember who he had been with who could have planted the note in his pocket. Most of the evening was a blur. He remembered Johnny Micco, Barney, Honey, the big boy’s dish, and others. Then he remembered how Johnny kept his arm on his shoulder. That Johnny Micco was smart. He could have cased it and left him the note. But why? Why warn Orvie, the punk? He must be sore at the Big Sand. Orvie sat in a cold sweat of fear. He decided that he better leave town in a hurry, and never see the big boy again. Then he shuddered as he remembered what had happened last year to Bucky. They said Bucky had tried to run out on Sanderson. Shot through the gut and dying by inches in an alley. Sanderson would have somebody watching him. He wouldn’t have a chance to sneak out. Better to go through with it and try to knock off the big boy the first chance he had. The thought of shooting at Sanderson started his whole body quivering. He felt desperate and trapped.

As he thought he fingered the automatic. He pushed the clip release and caught the clip in his hand. He tried to count the shells in it through the little holes in the side. He couldn’t. So he started sliding them out of the top of the clip. Seven. He started to jam them back in, but when he got to the last one, he found he didn’t have the strength in his fingers to push the last one down into the clip. He slid the slide back cautiously with the idea of putting the extra one in the chamber, but one was already there. He gave up and shoved the clip back in and laid the gun and the extra shell on his bed while he washed and dressed.

Suddenly he thought of Johnny. If Johnny had been the one who planted the note, then maybe he could give Orvie some advice. He finished dressing, slid the gun and the extra shell in the side pocket of his topcoat, and headed for Johnny’s apartment. He slowed abruptly when he rounded the comer. There were prowl cars, an ambulance and a big crowd of people in front of Johnny’s apartment. He didn’t want to risk the attention of the police as long as he had the gun in his pocket. Yet he felt he had to find out what had happened. He drifted up into the edge of the crowd, nudged a bystander and said, “What goes on?”

“I don’t know. Guy tells me it’s some kind a triple murder. Two guys and a gal. One of the guys is named Meechi or something like that. They’ll be bringing them out pretty soon.”

Orvie didn’t say another word. He spun on his heel and walked blindly down the street away from the crowd. It made sense. The Big Sand was cleaning up all the little details before he left. He realized that the gun which had killed Johnny and the other two would be planted on the dead body of Orvie and the police would have a cheap solution to the murders. He guessed that they must have tried to block the big boy in some other way. Tried to put the pressure on a little. He wondered if Sanderson knew about the note of warning. Probably not.

The endless hours of the day passed by in torment and fear. Orvie walked the streets for miles, the heavy gun weighing down one side of his coat. He neither ate nor rested. But when the clocks said nine, Orvie was standing on the corner where he had been told to stand. He had obeyed blindly. The lack of food had weakened him so that sounds seemed to come from far away. He felt his legs quivering as he stood under the street lamp.

In a few seconds a black coupe pulled up to the corner and the door swung open. Orvie caught a glimpse of the silhouette of the Big Sand’s blocky head, and be stifled his impulse to turn and run down the street. He climbed into the coupe.

The big boy didn’t say a word. They drove quietly for a dozen blocks, and then turned off and parked in a dark narrow street. Sanderson said, “I’ll leave the motor running. When I get out, you slide behind the wheel. Here, I’ll cut the lights. I’m going to come back running. When you hear me coming, open the door, and as soon as I hit the running board, you gun it. Don’t turn the lights on until you hit that main drag down there. Turn right with the heavy traffic and head for the bridge. I’ll tell you what to do after that.” Orvie’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t answer. He nodded his head, and felt Sanderson’s eyes on him. Sanderson climbed out and shut the car door gently.

Orvie sat in the dark, his nerves quivering, the motor humming quietly. He tried to think of some plan, but he couldn’t. His fear mounted and he felt a sort of frenzy. He was just in the process of deciding to roar out of the narrow street without waiting for the Big Sand, in fact his foot was just beginning to press down gently on the gas pedal when he heard the sound of running feet slapping on the sidewalk. He leaned over and flipped the far door open. The coupe tilted as Sanderson’s weight hit the running board. He dropped it into low and roared down the street. He braked, snapped on the lights, and turned right. Sanderson sat on the edge of the seat and looked back over his shoulder through the rear window.

Orvie pressed out and started to pass a string of cars when Sanderson said, “Take it easy. Sonny! Want to get us picked up for speeding? Just take it nice and easy. We got all night.” Then he laughed. At the sound of the laugh, Orvie shuddered.

They drove away from the city. Sanderson only spoke to indicate the turns. Gradually they left the more traveled roads, and in three hours they were winding up through the mountains. A light rain began to fall, and Sanderson grew cheerier. Some of the tension left him and he leaned back in the seat.

He patted his coat pocket and said, “Bearer bonds. Wonderful things.”

“Huh?” Orvie asked.

“You wouldn’t understand, kid. These are what they call negotiable bonds. Quarter of a million bucks worth. And I got me a passport and some dough of my own. All I got to do is drift across the country, get into Mexico and then get down to Argentina. Then I start to put these little babies in circulation and live like a king. I’m through with this lousy town. It’ll work like a charm. Sanderson is one smart joker. I heard they got nice babes in Argentina.”

The Big Sand started to bum an old tune, and Orvie licked his dry lips. He could almost figure out the next move. Then Sanderson said, “You done a good job, kid, and I’m going to take care of you. I knew all along I was right about you.” Orvie gulped. “You must be getting tired of driving, kid. Stop it here and walk around the car. I’ll slide over under the wheel.”

The road was dark and deserted. Orvie felt numb. The only feeling in his body was a dull burning behind his eyes. This was it. He pulled over and got out. He walked around the car. He jammed his hand in the pocked of his topcoat and grabbed the automatic. He clicked the safety off and jammed the gun down into the front corner of the pocket so that he could lift it and fire through the coat with one motion. His finger was tight on the trigger. His shoulders were so tense that they ached.

As he got near the black door of the car, it swung open quietly. He stepped around it and started to lift the gun when his world exploded. The slug that crashed into the bridge of his nose slapped him flat onto his back in the wet brush. The reflected glow of the headlights showed that he was almost smiling, if the grimace of sudden death can be called a smile.

The Big Sand was smiling too. He smiled and leaned forward toward the open door of the car. He leaned further and half fell, half rolled out of the car, the frozen smile of satisfaction still on his face. His head chunked on the concrete and he slowly unfolded his full length on the muddy shoulder.

Now, it was a strange series of circumstances that spoiled the future fun of the unknown dish in Argentina. If the fabric of Orvie’s coat hadn’t been so sleazy, if the automatic had been a little more carefully manufactured, if the hand which jerked the trigger in the convulsion of death hadn’t been holding the automatic pointed at that precise angle toward the running board, if Orvie’s thin fingers had been strong enough to get that last shell into the clip, if when he jammed the automatic down into his pocket the loose shell hadn’t nosed itself tight into the muzzle of the gun — then, when the cheap barrel shredded, that darting sliver of steel would never have ripped through the coat and into the corner of the Big Sand’s eye, sinking itself two inches deep into the grey pulsing brain.

Content

Robert Henry
The Fixed Smile of Death