The morning broke hot and bright off the western end of the Mason-Dixon line. Temperatures predicted in the high eighties. Typical for a northern West Virginia August. But Billy English didn’t believe a word of it.
“You fucking weather guys’re all the time lyin’.”
Sprawled idly on the front porch steps, Billy spit his words at a portable red and white Arvin radio perched on the porch floorboards up behind him. He loved that little transistor. Pinched it from an old couple’s house he’d been casing on the outskirts of Wheeling.
Every Thursday night like clockwork, the spruced-up elderly pair crawled into their battered pickup and headed off to town, taking advantage of retiree’s discount night at the local movie house. That’s when Billy struck. Crowbarred the back door. Ransacked the house. Rifled bureaus and dressers. Scooped up the old woman’s shiny treasures: jewel-studded bracelets, necklaces, and rings. Found a gold vintage Waltham pocket watch in the old man’s bottom dresser drawer. Jackpot Old people were a gold mine. But when his flashlight beam hit the mini radio, posing on the old man’s nightstand like a tiny, red and white striped box of candy, Billy had to have it. So when Hank Williams’ mournful voice warbled the opening words to “Cold, Cold Heart,” Billy cranked out a wistful sneer, twisted in his seat on the front porch steps, and turned up the volume on his little treasure.
He inherited the ramshackle, wood-framed house when his mama died. Standing back some thirty feet from an unpaved spur road off state route 24 about fifty miles southeast of Wheeling, the grey, weathered structure hadn’t seen a lick of paint in more than twenty years. A giant oak’s spread of gnarled branches shaded a corner of the spare, dirt-packed front yard. The county highway department sprayed oil on the road to keep down the dust, but they hadn’t passed by for two weeks
so the air just smelled like dirt.
Billy sniffed at the hot, dusty air, stretched out on his front porch steps, ankles crossed, elbows perched on the step behind him. With the radio’s volume turned low, he’d just turned his face toward the lyin’ weatherman’s sunshine when an old-model, red Ford pickup skidded violently to a stop in front of the house. A dust cloud roiled over the truck’s dim outline. Rolling through the yard’s open gate, the fine grit floated toward him. Sliced by shafts of sunlight, cut in leaf-shaped patterns by the front yard’s majestic oak, the gold-tinted dust died before it reached him, settling invisibly on the walkway’s hard-packed surface. Above Billy, two nervous grey squirrels chattered a warning, scampering inward toward the safety of the oak’s dark, knotted trunk.
The squirrel patter covered the screech of the truck door as it opened.
Frank Smith didn’t hop or jump out of his pick-up. He gently slid off the edge of the cracked leather seat till his feet touched the dirt. Demon arthritis kicked at his inflamed hips and knees like some jackass from hell. He winced, eased into the pain, grabbed the edge of the truck door’s open window with both hands and dropped his head between his outstretched arms. He wasn’t praying. Prayer changed nothing for Frank. He lifted each leg, hoping to shift the merciless cracks and scrapes of gristle and bone, send them back to hell where they belonged.
Standing there, waiting for the pain to subside, a stranger all his life to hope, comfort, and peace, he knew little of heaven. But hell? The job he’d done for years taught him everything he needed to know about hell without even cracking a book.
Frank raised his head and stared through the truck door’s open window down the long, dusty road. A gust of wind vibrated the tall oak’s dark green leaves. They clicked and rattled like a plague of locusts. He reached into the truck for the tool of his trade, curled his gnarled fingers around its familiar handle, hefted its weight, felt the measured balance. A glint of sunlight on its stainless-steel surface hit the back of his eyes, flinging his violent past into the present. He slammed shut the truck’s door.
Billy looked up.
What looked like an old man hobbled around the front of the pickup and paused at the front gate. An impish dust devil whirled down the middle of the road, obscuring the dark, bent figure. His mama would have called the mini whirlwind a sign, a natural warning.
Billy was a young man–nineteen–but had a record stretching back to when Pop Beegle caught him with a bag of candy bars under his coat. Billy didn’t even give a shit back then. He’d steal a bag of rocks just to see if he could get away clean. NO didn’t live in his vocabulary.
Didn’t take long before creeping houses, lifting jewelry, silverware, or cash–preferably cash—became his specialty. But one night the small-time thief tripped a silent alarm. Got caught. Did a stretch at Millie’s Home for Wayward Boys, fancy name for juvie lock-up, where he honed his skills and fine-tuned his talents. Hadn’t been caught since.
Bobo, his fence, ran a pawn shop up in Wheeling. Been in the game a long time. He bought everything Billy could steal. Siphoned off the dregs but kept the good stuff. Billy was his best supplier. Bobo said so. Bobo said a lot of things.
When Frank reached the open front gate, he paused for a breather, a hand on top of the gate post for support. He stared down at the long-bladed knife hanging from his other hand. Glanced up and marked Billy, stretched out across the porch steps. Though every footstep pained him, Frank shuffled toward the young man, following the long stretch of his shadow down the path.
When Frank limped into the oak’s dappled sunlight, Billy spotted the knife. He casually sat up, planting his feet on the step below. While reaching for a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled in the sleeve of his white t-shirt, he sized up the crippled old man. Frank plodded on, only a step or two away, his shadow now completely covering the young man. Billy lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke at Frank, dangling his arms over the tops of his knees–James Dean style.
“What’s up, old man? Forget your wheelchair?”
Frank stopped when his toes hit the bottom porch step’s riser.
Billy smirked. “Better put up that knife ‘fore you hurt yourself.”
Frank studied the posturing Billy.
“You broke into my house and stole my wife’s engagement ring,” Frank said.
Billy sucked on the cigarette. Eyed Frank.
“Sounds serious. Who says?”
“Bobo.”
Billy’s eyes changed. Part of Frank’s old job to notice such things.
“Bobo who?” asked Billy.
“Your fence.”
Billy pushed leisurely to his feet. Stood there for a beat, dragging on his Lucky, then took one confident step down closer to Frank. Just one step separated them. Billy tossed the cigarette away, freeing up his hands.
“One swing, you old shit-head geezer, an’ I’ll knock you right outta your damn socks. Knife or no knife.”
Frank didn’t move.
“Get the fuck out of here ‘fore I beat the shit out of you. Go on. Git.” Billy shooed at Frank like a bothersome fly.
Frank locked eyes with young Billy English.
“Bobo’s a friend of the family. Best man at my wedding. We worked up in the city for the Horton gang for years. I was their fixer. Bobo, their fence. Back then, I got my wife’s engagement ring from his pawnshop. Bobo gave it back to me.”
“Fuck Bobo.”
Frank dug the engagement ring out of his trouser pocket, held it up in a shaft of sunlight.
“Come on. Take a look.”
The one-carat princess-cut diamond’s sparkle caught Billy’s eye. He couldn’t resist a treasure. Curious, he bent forward just a little.
Frank flicked the blade across Billy’s middle, slashing a deadly criss-cross pattern.
Billy’s crisp, white t-shirt turned bright red. He sat hard, slumped back on the steps.
“What the fuck, old man. It’s jus’ a ring.”
“But it ain’t your ring.”
Trying to hold in his guts, Billy slapped and prodded frantically at his mid-section.
“What’d you do to me you old fuck?”
“Nothin’ you didn’t do to yourself.”
“Shiiiit.”
After a moment, when Billy’s head fell back and thudded on the edge of a step, Frank bent over and wiped the steel blade on a clean part of Billy’s t-shirt. Blood bubbled between the young man’s lips. Frank leaned close. Spoke in a low voice.
“Bobo sends his regards.”
The fixed, puzzled stare in Billy’s eyes glazed over.
“I’ll see you in hell.”
Frank turned and lumbered up the path, passing through a swirl of dust at the front yard gate.
The small, red and white Arvin transistor radio sitting on the porch floor above Billy’s body played a mix of old and new country tunes until the batteries died.
by 
James Shaffer
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Cool story. I liked the way the setting contributed to the overall story. Once again, age and experience overcomes youth and callowness.